CHAPTER 10:

THE FIERY CHARIOT

1

Even after noticing Greylancer enter the marble dome, Varossa did not falter from the task at hand. Whenever he was engrossed in his work, the eccentric weaponsmith was prone to forget not only his master’s visage and name, but also his severe disposition.

Varossa dipped an iron ladle into a massive cauldron and examined the molten steel contained within it. “Damn it!” He dipped into the cauldron again and scooped up another spoonful. This time he nodded, muttered, “Good,” poured the orange liquid into a trough, and watched it ooze ten meters into a small tank below. “Well now.” Satisfied, the old man removed the heat-resistant goggles from his face and began to descend the stairs toward Greylancer.

Swirls of smoke rose up from his asbestos vest and gloves.

Removing his gloves, Varossa came down the flight of stairs and started at the sight of his master standing but an arm’s length away. “My lord, when did you return?”

“Just now, on urgent business.”

“Is that so,” muttered Varossa indifferently. “Might your business be with me?”

“That is why I’ve come. You know about the time-deceiving incense?”

“Why of course. Miss Laria’s idea was a stroke of pure genius—albeit the idea alone was hers.”

“You were in possession of its formula during a period of five days about six months ago. Did you give anyone the incense or its formula during those five days?”

Varossa blinked twice before the question registered in his mind. “Did I, you ask?”

“Yes.”

“To anyone?”

“Yes.”

“Miss Laria’s invention?”

“That’s right.”

“On my life. No one.”

“Will you swear by the Sacred Ancestor?”

“Yes, by the Sacred Ancestor.” Then Varossa tilted his head upward in an affected manner and said, “Now, wait a minute…”

Seeing this, Greylancer continued, “Very well. Can you think of anyone who might have had access to the incense during the five days it was in your possession?” The air around them seemed to turn crimson under the glow of Greylancer’s eyes. “Varossa?” urged Greylancer.

“I cannot say.”

“Hmm. You are aware of the penalty for your answer?”

“My lord, I should like to take leave of my duties. I pray there will be no error in the payment of my wages. There were two such errors in my five thousand years of service, though I overlooked the slights in the past.”

“Fine. Go where you will. But after my business is done.” Greylancer took a step forward.

Varossa reached into his coat pocket and scattered something on the floor. What it was exactly was indiscernible.

A brick wall about five meters square burst forth from the ground and shot up between the men.

“Any fool can conjure a steel compression wall. But a brick wall took a bit of work.” Varossa watched the wall disintegrate before his very eyes. “Alas, brick is not terribly effective.”

“Do not fool with me, Varossa.” Greylancer drew back his lance.

The weaponsmith threw down another object at his master’s feet.

This time, a stone wall shot up from the ground. The center slid open, revealing a stone corridor.

“Come inside,” Varossa’s voice echoed from within.

One swing of Greylancer’s lance was capable of destroying such a contrivance.

Yet the warrior remained motionless, his lance lowered at his side.

Varossa was using him as a guinea pig for his latest invention—that much was clear. But Greylancer kept his temper in check, knowing that this longtime weaponsmith was burning with desperation, risking life and death at this very moment.

“Enter, my lord,” the voice said, more a command than request.

Greylancer’s eyes glowed blood red. The Noble entered the corridor, leaving behind the burning afterglow of his eyes.

Varossa waited for him ten meters ahead, a mere ten paces away by Greylancer’s gait.

When he was but a step away from where Varossa stood, a stone wall shot up before him. No, it was Greylancer that had turned a corner. Yet he had experienced the sensation of walking in a straight line toward his prey. Varossa stood and waited ten meters ahead, as before.

“A maze,” muttered Greylancer, seeing through the trick. If the contrivance were set at an entrance, any intruder would wander for an eternity inside an endless labyrinth.

But this was no time to admire the weaponsmith’s handiwork.

The Noble warrior unleashed the might of his lance upon the rock faces on either side of him.

The walls came crumbling down with one blow. Greylancer stepped over the smoky rubble and stopped before Varossa. “A decent contraption, but it suffers from your personal taste. You need only make the walls sturdier.”

“I’m delighted by your most tedious remarks,” Varossa said, bowing slightly. When he raised his downcast eyes, the silver tip of the lance was pointed at his nose. The weaponsmith shuddered. “I cannot reveal the name, my lord. You will have to strike me dead.”

Greylancer muttered, “Very well,” and drove the blade through the weaponsmith’s throat.

†

Upon his return, Greylancer found Laria waiting for him at the mansion.

“What are you doing?” he asked his younger sister. “Go get some rest.”

“I can’t help but feel something terrible is about to happen. Was it cloudy outside?”

“When I first arrived, yes.”

He knew not what the weather had to do with Laria’s premonition.

The comm on his collar vibrated, and a hologram of the gunner Gallagher floated up before him. Greylancer had tasked him with watching over the central government.

“My lord, about two thousand androsoldiers have departed the Capital and are headed in your direction.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“Stand by.” With a wave of his hand, Greylancer brought up an exterior image of the mansion.

Black dots appeared in the sky lit with the first rays of dawn, grew larger, and resolved into black aircraft. The small fleet descended and landed around House Greylancer. Equipped with magnetic propulsion systems, none of the missile-shaped aircraft needed stabilizing wings.

“They came prepared. Armed to the teeth with nuclear missiles. It speaks highly of your reputation, Brother,” Laria said, her voice free of anything but sincere admiration.

Upon a Noble’s capture, his land and property were confiscated. In much the same way, his treasure, jewels, and art, as well as all arms and inventions, became the property of the central government.

Where Greylancer was concerned, however, the government’s plan was to vaporize House Greylancer whole. The central government knew full well that they were dealing with someone who knew not the word for surrender.

When the androsoldiers had taken their positions outside the mansion, a robotic voice blared forth. “Lord Greylancer, we are with the Investigation Bureau’s 25th AS Combat Police Unit. You are a suspect in the murder of the chancellor of the Privy Council. You will return with us to the Capital.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Forgive us, we have been empowered to take exceptional measures. We will have no choice but to proceed to the nuclear option.”

“Do what you must, but I shall be forced to retaliate.”

“We will count to ten. If you do not surrender, we will respond with necessary force.”

“Suit yourself,” scoffed Greylancer.

The voice of the androsoldier rang across the mansion. “Ten. Nine. Eight…”

“Now what, Laria?”

“What ever shall we do now, Brother?” Greylancer exchanged a rare, invincible smile with his sister.

Exactly ten seconds later, the Greylancer property was engulfed in white-hot flames.

A tight gravitational shield was spread over the property, so the conflagration was contained within the grounds, thereby affecting none of the outlying areas.

†

Satisfied by the news of Greylancer’s destruction, members of the central government and Privy Council lay awake inside their coffins and contemplated how they might appease the many supporters of the brave warrior in the Capital.

“A bit of a pity, really.” Zeus Macula gazed at the scorched rubble and the bowl-shaped crater in the earth on the aerial screen and emptied his glass in one gulp. The glass had contained the blood of a farmer girl who’d wandered in earlier that day. Zeus was in Mircalla’s private residence in the Southern Frontier sector’s regional capital of Salazar. “I would rather have revealed the truth before sending Greylancer to his death. Alas, it was not meant to be. He will never return to this world, irradiated and banished to another dimension as he is. No, Greylancer shall not reconstitute physical form again.”

From the depths of the moonlit space, a lyrical voice rang out, though its cadence was elegaic. “In addition to being a warrior, there was too much of the investigator in him, I’m afraid.”

At the other end of the enormous table stood the ghostly figure of Duchess Mircalla. A gentle wind swayed her hair and the grass at her feet. The two overseers were in the midst of a private banquet in an illusory meadow.

“He threatened to uncover the truth far faster than either of us imagined. Time was ripe for Greylancer’s curtain to fall.”

“Right you are.” Zeus Macula stretched and let out a long yawn. He and Mircalla had awakened from their coffins only minutes prior. Ten hours had passed since Greylancer’s annihilation.

“Chancellor Cornelius’s death was unfortunate, but the Privy Council has sent word of the next meeting with the OSB. We shall have to prepare terms so the OSB will grant us control over the Frontier.”

“Grant? You must abandon such sodden thinking.” Mircalla’s eyes gleamed as she fixed a long look on her companion. “The OSB’s reign over this planet will last for but a moment. After one or two millennia, when their power has fallen into decay, we will vanquish the enemy and regain our supremacy. To this end, waging a meaningless war that would only lead to our ruin is the height of folly. How fortunate that the Privy Council is in agreement.”

“Those graybeards look upon you as their beloved. What man can resist seeing your pale flesh, hearing you whisper your desires into their ears, especially when those desires favor him?”

“The dissenters among them have been banished to some distant dimension. But they, too, might eventually come around and fall in line with the aliens.” Mircalla floated next to Zeus and cupped his rugged face in her slender hands.

Meeting her advance with a look of enchantment, Zeus fought back the desire to suckle her scarlet lips with every fiber of his body, feeling her hot breath on his face only inches away. “A millennium or two—even ten millennia is but the blink of an eye.”

Just as his lips brushed against hers, the duchess pulled away, like a fish carried backward by a current.

Zeus stood and moved to follow, but the eerily luminescent figure danced across the dimly lit meadow and evaded his grasp for several minutes, until finally his outstretched fingers touched her skin.

They tangled in the thick grass, letting out fevered breaths.

Beneath the pale moonlight, the duchess whispered, “Oh, Zeus. Your fangs upon my throat.”

“Oh, the taste of your blood! Why? Human blood is warm, but why is Noble blood as cold as our skin?” His breath turned to moans as Mircalla sank her fangs into his neck.

“Your blood soothes me like ice water. See how it runs from my mouth down to my bosom.”

Zeus pressed his lips against the swell of her chest as if the world existed only for them and began to unlace her bodice.

There was a sudden snarl of steel and a flesh-rending sound.

Zeus and Mircalla screamed.

The two writhed and tried to tear away from one another. But it was no use. Their bodies were pinned down against the illusory ground, skewered by a great lance.

When the shadow came around and hulked over them, Zeus Macula shouted, “N—Noble Greylancer!”

2

Zeus and Mircalla gaped with bloodshot eyes at the giant overshadowing them.

The intensity and unearthly aura were unmistakably those of a great warrior. But how was this possible? They had just witnessed his end via holographic projection.

“Pity that time for recreation is so fleeting.”

That voice—Greylancer was alive!

His resurrection roused many questions.

To begin with, how had he managed it?

Greylancer raised his left hand.

The image of the burned ruins of the Greylancer mansion floated in the air.

Greylancer rested a hand on the top edge of the image and then shifted it down, revealing another image underneath. There stood the mansion in its unblemished splendor.

“A live image,” said Greylancer. “To anyone else including the surveillance satellites, the mansion would appear to be in ruins.”

“The police unit…” Zeus groaned, a hint of curiosity in his anguish. “Did they not fire their missiles?”

“That they did—into uninhabited territory. The unit erred in their target and was none the wiser for it.”

Zeus and Mircalla, their mouths agape, could not speak.

“My residence remains where it has always stood, though it will appear to lie in ruins to anyone laying eyes on it.”

“How?” asked Mircalla. “How were you able to set foot into my residence, Lord Greylancer?” Her slender frame convulsed beneath the weight of Zeus’s body.

“I suspected your involvement when I was stricken immobile inside the catacombs at Mayerling Castle. Aside from Mayerling’s aides, the only one I’d notified of my whereabouts was you. And another: the scent that bound me was similar to your own—the smell you usually conceal with perfume. A certain woman revealed that the incense of great value to me is also made from the same substance—the DNA of the venerable von Hauptmann family. Is that not so, Mircalla von Hauptmann?”

The duchess did not answer.

“I was able to enter here undetected by the same trickery that caused the fools to fire their missiles at a mistaken target. Neither your servants nor your surveillance system could observe my coming. They were keeping watch over a different path, while I quietly made my way inside this room.” Greylancer flashed a dastardly smile. “I kept a rather incorrigible but skilled craftsman in my employ, you see. Now then, I shall reduce you to dust peacefully if you reveal the name of the traitor who gave you the incense used to produce that anesthetic.”

“Very well,” said Zeus, his voice strained. “I’ll tell you. But a peaceful death be damned. I expect nothing less than a duel.”

Brash words, given that he was skewered to the ground by Greylancer’s lance, his co-conspirator wedged beneath him. Zeus had thrown down a gauntlet that Greylancer had no cause to take up.

Nevertheless, the great warrior said, “Agreed,” and drew out the lance from the chests of the two Nobles. Was this the will or the fate of warriors?

“Do not interfere.” Rising to his feet, Zeus raised a hand toward the blood-smeared Mircalla behind him.

A long black whip uncoiled like a serpent and cracked against the ground, sparks flying in every direction. Zeus must have kept it hidden wrapped around his torso.

Another crack, and the whip was joined by another.

When Zeus revealed a third whip, Greylancer thrust his lance.

This was no prod to provoke the enemy, but a full-bodied finishing blow. One whip wound its lash around the lance before the tip could reach its target. Greylancer thrust the lance again. This time the whip unraveled and flew out of the handler’s hand. The force of the blow sent Zeus flying backward.

Zeus groaned where he landed. “Twisted the haft, did you?” Although he’d been deprived of one whip, the lashes gripped in his hand now numbered five. “That you can knock me back so easily…you are a formidable warrior. Then how about this?”

Another whip shot out.

What appeared to be a spearhead glanced off Greylancer’s lance. His hands stung—the whip was barbed with steel.

“What it lacks in power, it makes up for in dexterity!” The whip circled over Zeus’s head and attacked Greylancer again. The Greater Noble repelled the spearhead again, but the supple spear wrapped its tail around the lance like a serpent and tried still to plunge into his heart.

The whip—no, the snake—will not stop no matter how many times I turn it back. How do I kill it?

“Attack!” Zeus shouted and unleashed the five snake whips at the Greater Noble.

A flash of steel streaked through the air in a straight line.

The whips raveled around the lance and threatened to slither up the haft.

Zeus gawked in disbelief.

The whips had stopped.

“You will not have them back,” said Greylancer. “Unless my lance tires of them.”

With the whips fastened tightly around the haft, Greylancer raised the lance over his head and swung it around. Just once. The five whips twisted around, went slack, and were flung off in the blink of an eye.

“Damn you!” Zeus jumped back as Greylancer thrust his lance once again toward the traitorous Noble’s chest.

Suddenly, a pale white figure caught the blade in her bare hands.

“What skill is this?” muttered Greylancer, furrowing his brow.

The duchess, who’d intercepted the deadly attack, let slip a sorrowful smile.

“Do not interfere, Mircalla!” barked Zeus. This was a battle between Noble men.

“Forgive me, Zeus.” The woman’s voice was barely audible and strained with tension. Her entire body trembled, as she mustered every ounce of strength and tried to stop the blade inching ever closer to her heart. “Quickly!”

Does she mean for me to flee? Zeus bellowed, red-faced, “This is my fight! Stand back, woman!”

“No, my beloved!”

Greylancer gave away a look of amusement upon hearing a hint of affection in the words of the cold-blooded woman. She was prepared to die for the man she loved.

“Your chest wound still bleeds. It will not heal without attention. Quickly, you must escape. I will hold Lord Greylancer here.”

Greylancer recognized the meaning behind her words.

If the lance pierced her chest, blood would be spilled. The scent of her blood would likely render Greylancer paralyzed.

“You dare allow a woman to secure your escape?”

Zeus’s face flushed. He put a hand on Mircalla’s shoulder and seethed, “Back, I say!”

“I will not!”

Greylancer had expected Zeus to push Mircalla aside, but then what?

What transpired next confounded his expectations.

Letting go of the lance, Mircalla lunged forward.

Greylancer retracted his lance, but not before the blade pierced the woman’s heart.

So unexpected was this outcome that Greylancer stood transfixed. The blood gushed from Mircalla’s wound. Dark pearls of blood sprayed the left side of his face.

Greylancer pressed a hand against his cheek. Black smoke swirled up from between his fingers, as the infernal pain shook his entire being.

“Those burns shall never disappear from your face…” gasped Mircalla. “But Lord Greylancer…the same blood that has scarred you…my blood shall endow you with new powers…Spare him, Greylancer…my spirit…shall remain…eternally grateful.”

Mircalla crumpled to the floor, her skeletal remains and white dress besmeared with dust and blood.

Even as Greylancer continued to twitch in pain, he pointed the lance at Zeus’s chest, only a jab away from certain death.

“Do it,” groaned Zeus. “My surviving by the hand of a woman is a disgrace on the Macula name. Strike me down, Greylancer.”

The giant remained still, perhaps stirred by the death of the Noble woman. Beneath the moonlight, a breeze blew around him. Strands of smoke rose up from between his fingers and drifted away into the distance.

Zeus seized the lance tip with both hands and drew himself to his feet. Aiming the blade at his chest, he lunged forward, plunging the lance into his heart just as Mircalla had.

The blood-smeared tip pierced clear through his back.

Greylancer muttered, “Like husband, like wife.” As the gentle breeze caressed the moonlight, the warrior suddenly found himself alone in the meadow.

†

Several hours later, a matronly servant left the farmhouse at the edge of the Western Frontier and made her way down the steep hill toward the general store.

At the bottom of the hill, she came upon an uninhabited farmhouse. The moon shone down upon the property, which still hinted at a life abandoned only recently.

The maidservant spotted a caped shadow standing at the gates and nearly fell on her backside. Despite being called slow and dimwitted, she sensed a sinister aura that made her hair stand on end.

Without bothering to turn to address the petrified woman, the shadowy figure asked, “Where is the family that lived here?”

Perhaps some part of the maidservant’s heart warned her of the fate that might befall her if she did not answer. Instinctively, her mouth opened. “They moved away three days or so ago,” she answered, surprised by how easily the words came out of her mouth.

“I see. There was a blind girl and her brother, a skilled archer. What has become of them?”

“Why, they left together. I don’t reckon I know where. The rumor is they headed for the Northern Frontier.”

“North,” said the shadow in a low murmur.

The woman felt an imperceptible pang in her heart, though she knew not the reason why.

“You have my thanks.” The shadow threw down several coins at her feet. It was enough gold for the woman to live on for the rest of her days. “Tell no one of our encounter. If you do…”

The woman shook her head vigorously, knowing well that this unilateral promise was one both intended to keep.

The shadow strode off and disappeared around the corner of the abandoned house. The rattle of a wagon echoed and soon faded into the night.

†

When the woman returned home, the other maidservants of the house took one look at her blanched face and asked what had happened.

“Why you’re as pale as death!”

“Darn if you don’t look half Noble.”

“I’m all right,” said the woman to the others gathered around her and hid beneath the tattered bed covers.

Her body glistened with sweat, and she shivered as if stricken by malarial fever.

Yet in her heart, she felt terribly at peace.

At least tonight, she felt strangely comforted that she had encountered someone lonelier than she.

3

Two days passed. A band of Nobles boarded an OSB aircraft that descended upon the grasslands north of the Capital, whereupon Greylancer and his vassals stormed into the clandestine meeting, killing over twenty OSB—all save one—and capturing the traitorous Nobles.

Greylancer hastened directly for the Privy Council with his captives in tow and demanded the immediate assembly of a council board of inquiry.

The assembled members of the Privy Council examined Greylancer’s complaint and were aghast.

The suit disclosed details of the cabal and demanded the dismissal or execution of the current Privy Council members. Also included as part of the demands was the suspension of the planned plasma attack on the Frontier.

Ten members of the Sub-Council gathered in the council chamber to conduct the inquiry. On this night, those Nobles usually in the position of adjudicating such cases found themselves playing the role of defendants.

With Greylancer, who wore a black and white mask over the left side of his face, before them, the accused leveled a barrage of questions against the lone plaintiff.

“What proof do you have? Are you in your right mind? Are you not a suspect yourself for the murder of Chancellor Cornelius?”

To which Greylancer countered:

“I come with evidence and witnesses. I am quite sane. The root of the suspicion against me will become clear in the course of this inquiry.”

Then Greylancer’s vassals escorted the OSB captive, still in human form, and two members of the Privy Council, who’d vanished days before, to the witness stand. At once, all color drained out of the accused members’ faces.

After a medical adviser confirmed that the witnesses were not under the influence of drugs, spells, or other method of supernatural compulsion, each of the witnesses had a turn in confirming the conspiracy.

The testimony of the captured OSB, having no reason to lie, proved more effective in corroborating Greylancer’s allegations than those of the two council members.

“In view of these facts, it is evident the current members of the Privy Council have conspired to perpetrate the most heinous of betrayals—to relinquish control of the planet to the OSB.” After concluding in a low but forceful voice that shook not only the chambers but also the Privy Council Ministry, Greylancer called for the immediate sentencing of the traitors.

It was plain to anyone that the plaintiff’s request was justified. Yet when one of the Sub-Council members asked, “Are there any objections?” one of the defendants—Vice-Chancellor Pitaka—offered a surprising rebuttal.

“Lord Greylancer’s accusations in this matter are either all a sham or nothing more than a misunderstanding. No doubt my two colleagues here, much less the OSB, have testified under coercion because they fear for their lives. We are capable of providing ample evidence and testimony to refute the claims made here, but we require several days. But I should think it a waste of time and energy to have to defend ourselves against such preposterous allegations. Nevertheless, these charges, however flimsy, are matters of grave importance that affect the very survival and honor of the Privy Council. I propose, therefore, that our fates be decided by the Ultimate Mind, who has guided us these four thousand years.”

Murmurs of surprise erupted from the Sub-Council and judge advocates. Several nodded their approval.

The presiding members retreated to the inner chambers and returned from their deliberations within a minute. “We would like to approve Vice-Chancellor Pitaka’s proposal. Lord Greylancer, what say you?”

“I shall defer to your judgment.”

Within ten minutes, the Ultimate Mind emerged from an undisclosed location in the bowels of the central government building and entered the chambers unaided.

Though this surrogate of the Sacred Ancestor was a machine comprised of enormous red triangles stood on their points, it exuded a peculiar vitality like that of flesh and blood. “I will hear your statements,” it declared.

After the plaintiff and defendants repeated their claims and statements exactly as before, the Ultimate Mind fell silent.

Then, before a minute passed, it answered, “The plaintiff’s request is denied. I declare the defendants not guilty.”

†

No one dared voice shock or objection. The word of the Sacred Ancestor, even in his surrogate form, was absolute—it was a cardinal rule ingrained in every Noble’s bones.

Certainly not every Noble was capable of immortalizing his name in history. What Greylancer did next, however, would cement his already well-chronicled reputation in the annals of history.

“May I inquire the reason?” he asked calmly.

“That is hardly necessary!” shouted Vice-Chancellor Pitaka.

“That will not be necessary,” said the Ultimate Mind.

“But—”

“Enough, Lord Greylancer,” said the Sub-Council leader, stern. “The Sacred Ancestor’s decision is final.”

The Greater Noble rose to his feet. “I should like to request another ruling. This is a matter that concerns not only the Nobility but also humanity and the fate of this world.”

“A second ruling will change nothing, Lord Greylancer,” the Ultimate Mind answered fairly and evenly.

“I ask the Ultimate Mind to deliberate on another matter,” said Vice-Chancellor Pitaka, his tone triumphant. “We would like the Privy Council to assume control of the Frontier.”

“I see no objection to making it so.”

“Vice-Chancellor Pitaka.” Greylancer seethed with palpable anger. “I see you have tampered with the Ultimate Mind.”

A single wooden spike pierced Greylancer’s neck. It had come from the direction of the Ultimate Mind. “You insult me with your accusation, Lord Greylancer,” said the machine with the imposing shadow. “This council is now concluded. You are dismissed.”

Greylancer pulled the spike from his neck and bit his lip. It was at this moment the warrior vowed to eliminate the members of the Privy Council.

And then the voice added, “This council is declared null and void.”

†

It was a deep voice that resonated across the council chambers. Whence had the voice come? Not one Noble directed his attention toward the Ultimate Mind.

The Nobles all looked off in different directions. Heaven and earth.

Their bodies trembled, a phenomenon brought about by the mysterious voice.

It can’t be…

Would they utter the name that they had only several occasions to utter in a lifetime?

It can’t be…

“Someone has indeed tampered with the Ultimate Mind. Vice-Chancellor Pitaka, perhaps you discovered the operations manual I left behind.”

Such a sublime voice. This was no doubt the voice of a missionary from the depths of space.

“It is as you say,” acknowledged Pitaka, making no attempt to protest.

There was no outcry toward this admission. The Nobles present felt nothing yet sensed the presence of something extraordinary.

The voice continued, seeming to rain down over them from above. “Vice-Chancellor Pitaka, you have acted treacherously against my will to serve your self-interest. Thus the earlier ruling is null and void. The Frontier will remain under the discretionary powers of the overseers, as it always has. With regard to the war against the OSB, so long as the aliens contend that their invasion is the will of their god and believe that it is just, we must not yield an inch. This is my bidding unto you.” The Nobles present bowed their heads in silence. “The rest I leave in your hands. The treachery revealed here today is regrettable. However, the reality before us remains. There is but one path for us to walk.”

“Sacred Ancestor.” It was Greylancer who spoke up. “Whence have you come? And whence will you go?”

There was no answer.

The Nobles recognized that their venerated ancestor was gone. They stared vacantly as if the presence had retreated again to an unknown place, drawn back to the void inside their hearts. Hidden behind their blank faces was a childlike excitement at having laid eyes on the great man.

†

The traitorous members of the Privy Council were executed on the same day. Greylancer left his adjutants to deal with the aftermath and returned to his childhood home.

Laria greeted him at the door.

Greylancer entered the parlor.

Before he was upon his cherished sofa, his limbs froze. Suddenly, he felt enervated, an intense lethargy invading his bones. “Laria…”

Bathed in the moonlight before him, a gas mask covering his nose and mouth, was Brueghel, Laria’s husband.

“Poor Noble, who knew that his stringbean of a brother would be the one to take his life?”

“You stole…this blasted trickery…from Varossa…” said Greylancer through gritted teeth. The smoke screen and time-deceiving incense could both be traced back to Varossa.

“That’s right,” replied Brueghel. “In small portions, over time. I hired others to do my bidding, but perhaps Varossa grew wiser to my deceit.”

“He…protected you…to the last.”

“He is a loyal retainer, such as he is. I expect he will continue to serve Laria and me, grief-stricken as we will be by your death.”

“Your backers…have all perished…the Investigation Bureau will soon come for you…”

“At which time, I shall ask Varossa to clone me, to act as a decoy. They will assume that they succeeded in destroying me.”

“You intend still…to join with the OSB?”

“Of course. When the OSB conquer this planet, they will hand over full managerial control to me. We have made a pact.”

Brueghel’s hips wobbled as he unsheathed his blade. Such was the skill of a government toad unpracticed in the ways of swordsmanship.

He inched timidly forward, stopped short of Greylancer’s reach, and raised the sword over his head.

In that instant, Greylancer whispered something into the badge on his collar, but Brueghel, too intoxicated by the taste of certain victory, paid no notice.

“Dear Brother, you have always looked down upon my station as civil officer. Perhaps it was you that drove me to conspire with the OSB.”

Brueghel swung the long sword.

The blade traced a path that missed wide of its mark. The sword flew out of his hands and skittered across the glass floor as Brueghel fell over on his back.

An unexpected savior had come to Greylancer’s aid. It was the swordsman Shizam.

“I came because Gallagher is vulnerable to the time-deceiving incense,” said the swordsman, helping the warrior to his feet.

“You…?” said Greylancer, unable to hide his surprise.

“I have been traveling with Gallagher, ever since Lord Mayerling bade me to serve as your retainer.”

“Then why did you not say so in the catacombs of Mayerling Castle?”

“I could not bring myself to serve a master who would think nothing of leaving behind a retainer suffering in agony.”

“Oh? Then why now?”

“I must carry out my master’s orders. As well Gallagher impressed upon me repeatedly that I must not form an opinion by your outward conduct alone.”

“Well said,” said Greylancer and looked down upon his brother-in-law lying at his feet. After hitting his head in the fall, the floor around Brueghel was smeared with brain matter. A peculiar emotion, one distinct from scorn, came across the warrior’s face. Forlornness.

“Brother…finish me…here…” rasped Brueghel as if he were wringing out his last breath. But brain trauma of this sort would not kill a Noble.

“No,” roared Greylancer. “You will be punished under Noble law.”

“Not that…the fate that awaits me is torture at the hands of half-humans. They harbor a deep-rooted hatred for the Nobility and will inflict that hatred upon my body. Brother…I beg for your mercy. Please, kill me now.”

Disregarding his brother-in-law’s entreaties and ignoring his bloody outstretched hand, Greylancer said into his comm, “Take this unpardonable traitor into custody.”

“My sympathies, Lord Greylancer,” said Shizam with a bow.

Before the swordsman could raise his head, an enormous hand shoved him aside. Reeling, Shizam quickly regained his footing and looked up. Greylancer had already vanished in a burst of blinding light.

Brueghel was also gone.

Shizam sent a ferocious glare upward. “A dimensional barrier?” That was the name of the weapon that could confine even immortal Nobles to another dimension for an eternity.

A pale-blue aircraft appeared overhead. Shizam reached for the sword behind his back. He unsheathed the blade and threw it at the enemy in one swift motion. The swordsman watched the sword disappear into the void, but not before cutting a red slash across the aircraft.

In the blink of an eye, the aircraft glowed white-hot, warped into an elongated, twisted shape, and then disappeared like a vision.

Shizam heaved a sigh of relief.

“Who brought me back?” asked Greylancer, suddenly standing next to the swordsman again.

“Lord Greylancer, how did you…?”

“I am armed with all manner of contingencies, thanks to a skilled weaponsmith.” Greylancer glanced down at the ground where Brueghel had lain. “Did the OSB come to save Brueghel or destroy him? Their arrival was a blessing in disguise for Brueghel, whichever the case.” Looking up at the air, Greylancer asked, “Who was it that brought me back? Have you any idea?”

“I’m afraid I do not,” answered Shizam, politely and respectfully. Above him, the vestiges of the brilliant light from whence the OSB came twinkled, then disappeared into the darkness. Then Shizam dropped to one knee and said, “You have saved my life. I shall repay this debt with my life. It would be my honor to serve as your retainer.”

“Do as you wish,” Greylancer grunted. The effects of the time-deceiving incense were beginning to wear off. “Even a plot to seize the whole world can come to naught in one night—such a pity.” Betraying these words, two fangs gleamed from beneath a cynical smile. “We fly for the Frontier tonight. To my territory. To home.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“After me, Shizam. Do not tarry.”

Greylancer strode off toward the Frontier, toward the battleground against the OSB.

The Noble’s path was unerring and true.