Kalain did understand Minbari culture and myths, and he recognised a blade like that when he saw one. Fabled across the whole of the Minbari Federation, Durhan’s last great work before embarking on his solitary mission to the sea of stars, the nine blades had been given to those he deemed most suitable. Sinoval, current Holy One, had received one, as had the great Shai Alyt Branmer and his aide – and Durhan’s pupil – Neroon. Some had been lost since Durhan had made them, but enough remained of his legacy.
It said a lot that such a weapon was wielded by a human, one who had done more to threaten the Minbari race than any other, one to whom the Minbari gave the name Starkiller.
Kalain struck forward, aiming fast blows at Sheridan’s midriff and legs. Sheridan parried them awkwardly and stepped back. He still did not know exactly what he was doing, but how much could there be to it, he thought. Long heavy object. Your opponent. Hit the one with the other. There. Sounded simple enough.
Except that your opponent tended to try and stop you hitting him with the long, heavy object. After that it was a bit of a mystery. Hopefully, he would get another go.
Kalain rushed in for another attack. Sheridan managed to parry the first few blows and step out of the reach of the others. He even managed to attempt a vague and weak counterattack, easily parried by Kalain.
Pike crashed against pike, Kalain not letting up, driven by his hatred and his fury and his shame. Once before, over Mars, he had cowered before the Starkiller’s approach, and the Grey Council, whom he had been set to guard, had paid the price. He would not let himself be so dishonoured again, even if he had to commit a greater dishonour to do so.
Pike against pike. Charge against careful retreat. Blood against blood.
Blood calls out for blood.
For the Dralaphi, for Shakiri and Shakat and Nur. For the Emphili and the Dogato. For Draal and for all of those who had fallen beneath Sheridan’s hand…
Blood calls out for blood. Kalain’s called out for Sheridan’s.
Valen had prophesied that the Minbari would unite with the other half of their soul in a war against the common enemy. No one could have suspected that the other half of their soul would be the humans who were even now locked in combat with the Minbari, or that the two were uniting in blood, destroying each other in hatred and death.
Kalain did not care. Neither did Sheridan.
Neither cared about anything except for victory… and death.
There was death aplenty in the ship of the Grey Council at the Battle of the Second Line. The Grey Council, which had stood for a millennium as keeper of Valen’s prophecies, wisdom and legacy… the Grey Council was dead. Six of the Nine lay dead. Rathenn and Lennann of the religious caste killed by the being known as Deathwalker. Four others slain by one of their own – Hedronn of the workers – driven insane by alcohol given to him by Deathwalker. Hedronn himself was hovering between sanity and madness, unable to comprehend what he had done, unable to understand the enormity of what he had been driven to. Their leader, Sinoval, was missing, and Kalain was in battle with the Starkiller.
The Hall of the Grey Council was now occupied only by the dead, and by two who should be dead. There was Warmaster Jha’dur of the Dilgar, Deathwalker, who lived only by virtue of her immortality serum, her life bought by the deaths of countless others. And there was Delenn, formerly of the Grey Council, now named Zha’valen by that very Council. Considered dead to her people, none of whom could speak to her, speak her name, look at her…
Minbar had fallen, its leaders dead, its fleet destroyed, its confidence broken. Outside, the Minbari fleet and the Rangers were fighting and dying, not having been given the order to retreat because there was none to give that order. Under Deathwalker’s influence, the fleet would be destroyed. Delenn could not give that order.
The two were fighting then, not for any concrete benefit, but because they had stepped too far for them not to fight. Delenn was maddened by the death all around her, gripped by a terrible, terrible sadness, maddened by the changes in her body that she neither comprehended nor recognised. She was acting from pure willpower, pure determination not to let the deaths of Lennann and Rathenn and all the Council go unnoted and unremarked.
Jha’dur… she was fighting because it was all she knew. From birth she had been taught that the Dilgar were the superior people. Blessed with greater intelligence, greater strength, greater genius than all the other races, it was only natural to exploit them, to use them for the good of her people. Last of her race, Jha’dur was determined not to let them go unnoticed and unremembered. Humanity would be her monument to the Dilgar. She had set them on the right path and the countless deaths of Minbari here at the Second Line, they would be the foundation that would take humanity to depths of terror and death that not even the Dilgar had reached.
Jha’dur and Delenn were nowhere near as unevenly matched as Sheridan and Kalain. Both had been trained well. Delenn by her love Neroon, Jha’dur by the greatest warriors in the Wind Swords clan. Both knew how to wield the weapon, but Jha’dur revelled in death. She was fit and competent and unafraid. Delenn was still a stranger in her own body, uncertain and hesitant. She had just seen friends die at the hand of one of their own number.
Delenn stumbled over Matokh’s body and it took her a moment to right herself. While she did, Deathwalker simply waited and smiled.
“Why do you do this?” Jha’dur asked. “Why fight? What are you fighting for? Your people are doomed, dying… your precious Grey Council broken. You are outcast, Zha’valen… You have nothing to fight for.”
“I do,” she replied slowly. “I do.” Her breathing was harsh. Her ribs hurt and her muscles ached, and the pain behind her eyes was almost blinding.
“What? Tell me.”
“I fight… because it is right… because… we must never yield, never give in to the Darkness. When we meekly accept our fall, that is when we are truly lost. There must always be hope. Without it we are nothing.”
“I once heard something. An old saying. ’A man without hope is a man without fear.’ You cling to your little hopes, aspirations and dreams. They will never come to pass. You will die here, alone, forgotten and unremembered. No one will care. No one will…”
Jha’dur suddenly started and looked up. “What?” She looked around her, a look of… almost terror on her face. “No,” she breathed. “Display!” Around them the whole display of the battle appeared. Delenn could only assume that Deathwalker had arranged to have it turned off while she killed the Grey Council. She had gone to great effort to blame the worker caste for the tragedy. That could not be achieved if anyone else knew the truth. Delenn did not matter. She would never be believed…
Delenn also looked around. The great Minbari fleet now seemed such a small thing, hemmed in and surrounded by advancing Shadow ships. She could see a human ship – the Babylon – attacking the enemy, but even with their help, the Minbari seemed threatened, outnumbered… lost…
Except that they were not alone any longer.
All around them jump gates were opening and out were pouring huge mottled ships, green and red and golden. The Shadows were hesitating, doubtful about this new enemy. Delenn smiled.
“Vorlons!” Jha’dur spat. “This isn’t right! This isn’t by the rules! This…”
“They have come to help us,” Delenn said. “We are not as alone as you might think.”
“And what do you know? You’re just a little puppet for them. You had one once, didn’t you? Inside your head. It told you all the right things, set you on this path…” Jha’dur shook her head. “You know nothing. You really know nothing at all. I almost pity you.”