She had already started her strike when Marcus pushed Lyta out of the way. It had been aimed at Lyta, but she seemed helpless to redirect it, and Marcus seemed just as helpless to stop it.
Ivanova wielded the weapon consummately. She had held it for nearly a year after all. It was almost a part of her.
Lyta later supposed that she had tried to pull the blow back at the last minute, as if she realised who she was attacking, but too late.
At the time Lyta could not notice this. She only saw the pike tear into Marcus’ chest, ripping apart the skin, crushing bone and muscle as it did so.
His heart broke.
Chapter 5
It was an old story, a very old story, one he had listened to as a child. Listened to, and remembered and dreamed about.
The gallant knight, the fair maiden, the foul monsters, the wicked enchantress. A noble quest, infiltrating the fortress of evil, vanquishing the monsters and winning the hand of the fair lady.
Real life doesn’t always end like that.
Marcus Cole had read epic fantasy as a child, read and memorised, but most of all, he had read the Arthurian legends, he had read about Camelot, the Grail Quest, the Battle of Camlann… He had read of King Arthur and his fair Guinevere, of Lancelot the Brave, Galahad the Pure, Gawain and the Green Knight, Perceval Knight of the Grail, mysterious and wise Merlin, Gareth Knight of the Kitchen, the sorceress Morgana… Marcus Cole had dreamed about knights, about the Round Table, he had dreamed of becoming a knight, of living his life to a code, a purpose, a duty to something greater than he was.
He never found it.
Oh, he found a place, of sorts, but only after his home colony had been destroyed, only after his brother had been killed, only after he had lost everything.
Marcus Cole knew about the Shadows, he knew about what they could do, perhaps more than anyone else, for he alone of the people on Proxima – up until the fateful Battle of the Second Line – had seen them rising in their full, black, terrible fury. He still saw them in his dreams. He still heard their screams.
No one else understood. No one could. Captain Sheridan only saw them as an enemy to be fought, as did Commander Corwin. To Satai Delenn they were prophecy and destiny and fate. Not even Lyta understood properly, although she must have seen them in his mind as she touched him there.
No, one other person understood. Susan Ivanova. Ambassador of the Shadows. Marcus Cole had been set to watch her, to observe and record and report. She had known about his intentions of course, and the two had indulged in a battle of wits for months. And then something unexpected happened.
She understood him, better than anyone else. She also knew the sheer loss, the pain of losing everything, the pain of trying to rediscover dreams when the world has stolen them from you. She knew the need for companionship, for understanding, for peace…
In many ways, she was his kindred spirit, far more than Lyta could ever be, but Susan had given herself to the Shadows. Whether from force or from weakness or because she genuinely believed, she had given herself to the Darkness, and that was something Marcus Cole would never do, not even at the end.
It was the end.
In the skies above them, Minbari were fighting and dying. Drawn to Proxima 3 half out of necessity, half out of blood thirst, they had come, and the Shadows had been waiting for them. The Minbari were falling. Sheridan was there, as was an unlikely assortment of allies, brought together by the one other person who understood the Shadows as Marcus did, a person whom Marcus had met only very briefly, a meeting which could never forge the links they should have shared.
On the ground of Proxima 3 an equally deadly battle was taking place.
The gallant knight had rescued the fair maiden, but there was one small, tiny deviation from the classic.
The gallant knight was dead.
His blood slowly pooled on the floor…
In Valen’s Name…
The Minbari cruiser – it was the Varmain – turned about, directing all of its forward batteries at the huge, black form hovering above it. The Shadow ship seemed paralysed, unable to move as the focussed force of the cruiser’s weapons tore into it. It was struggling, writhing against hidden and unseen chains.
The chains snapped.
The Varmain tried to keep up its burst, but the Shadow vessel managed to pull away. It was clearly badly damaged. Sensing blood, the Varmain pushed forward.
Two more Shadow ships fell into its path, and their weapons tore the cruiser apart…
“In Valen’s Name…” breathed Hedronn, and Lennann and Rathenn. Sinoval even thought he had heard Kalain utter the name of their messiah.
He could not blame them. The Grey Council had always known that the day would come, as spoken in prophecies, when the Minbari went to war with the Ancient Enemy once again. They had always known, and they had tried to prepare, but nothing could prepare any of them for this… this carnage.
Except for Sinoval. He had seen this day in his dreams ever since he had been a child, and first brought to temple. He had seen this day, and many others, and he knew his destiny had been set.
“We are destroying some of them,” spoke up Satai Matokh. Another warrior, but one far more moderate in scope than Sinoval himself. Far weaker, as well. He had been wounded in Sheridan’s attack over Mars. He had never been quite the same since.
It was true. Sinoval had seen several of the Shadow ships paralysed, pinned in place by an unknown force, enabling the cruisers and the White Stars to tear them apart, but it took long, focussed bursts to do so. The Minbari didn’t have the time, and the Shadows were too fast.
“Not enough,” replied Hedronn. “We are losing. I think our path is set.”
Sinoval ignored him. Hedronn was old, and set in his ways, and a worker. What did he know? Sinoval was analysing the battle. Victory was still possible. Somehow, the Shadows were being attacked by other ships, including a Narn heavy cruiser, a Centauri warship and three human destroyers – the very people the Shadows were meant to be allied with. Sinoval did not like mysteries, but he had to admit that these five ships were holding back the Enemy.
Victory was always possible while there was breath to be drawn.
“Listen to him, Sinoval,” spoke a new voice, one absent from the Council for almost a whole cycle. One absent, and newly returned, with little change for its absence.
The two white-robed acolytes who had ushered Delenn into the Hall bowed and left, leaving her alone in the centre of the circle. Sinoval could see the other Satai looking at her, some with caution, some with disgust, and why should they not? Delenn’s appearance would disgust anybody.
Sinoval ignored her as well. His eyes were on the heavens, revealed in the images all around him.
“Sinoval! Listen to us, in Valen’s Name!”
Delenn had been captured recently, taken from the Earther destroyer on which she had been held – whether as prisoner or guest was up for interpretation. The Minbari boarding crew had ultimately been driven off, but not without two very useful trophies. Delenn was the first. The other…
…was John Sheridan. Starkiller.
He could wait. He was even now rotting in his cell, and there would be no miracle escape this time. Yes, Sinoval thought, he could wait, but Delenn… Let the Council see. Let the Council see what she had become.
He saw another White Star ship destroyed. He mouthed a prayer to Valen in memory of the crew.
“Sinoval!”
He finally turned to look at the one who had until so recently been a member of this assemblage. Then had come the Starkiller. Sinoval did not believe that she had aided his escape. Sinoval did not believe that she had willingly betrayed her people to the Enemy. Sinoval did not believe that she was acting out of anything other than what she felt was best for Minbar.