“Enough,” Hector said. “I told you I’ll talk to him. I’ve known him longer than any of you.” He eyed the two other conspirators who were still anonymous in the shadows. “If he has any intention of claiming the throne, I’ll find out. You have my word.”

  21

  Julian had seen plenty of pictures of Meursault blades over the years. From a distance, he had once seen the king’s former sword as it hung by Artan’s side. Back when Vere gave that same Meursault to Morgan, Julian had been stationed on the far side of the kingdom. His most personal and recent experience with the swords had come from Lancelot. She had defeated him three times, each with little effort, and part of that was due to the pair of Meursaults she carried into combat.

  Now, Julian was holding one for himself. Not just any either, but the exact blade Artan the Good had held while ruling the CasterLan kingdom. Until Julian held one of the legendary weapons in his own hand, he couldn’t appreciate how light and balanced the weapon was.

  In front of his fireplace, he turned the sword over and over in his hands. It wasn’t cold enough to necessitate the fire, but he was mesmerized by the way the flames played off the chameleon blade. With the sword held broadside out, the blade almost looked like any other, the reflection of yellow and orange flames dancing from one edge of the metal to the other. A mirrored surface danced wherever he flicked his wrist. Adjusting his grip slightly, the thin blade vanished, revealing nothing in front of him but the fire. With another gesture, the sword reappeared. Back and forth he went, turning the weapon so its blade became invisible and then was reborn.

  “Are you coming to bed, honey?”

  Startled from his trance, he looked up and saw Margaret in the doorway. Her eyes were tired, narrow slits and she looked as if she were trying to remain as close to sleep as possible so she could return to dreaming within moments of putting her head down on a pillow.

  “Of course, my dear. I’ll be up in just a minute.”

  She offered a smile and left him alone again.

  Without another thought, his attention turned back to the Meursault. No matter how many times he looked at the sword in his hands, it kept him enraptured. There had been other times when he had been in awe—his first time passing through a portal, his first post as commander of a flagship—but never like this. In his hand was a legend. The past and also the future.

  Billions of lives had passed through portals. Thousands of officers had commanded flagships. Only a select few rulers had ever been able to say they owned a Meursault.

  He held the tip of the blade in front of the fire, the only source of light in the room. As the sword moved in invisible swishes around the flames, a trail of sun-colored vapor followed, letting Julian see exactly where the hidden blade was moving. A moment later, he pulled the Meursault away from the fire, flicked it in the direction of the wall beside him, and saw the vapor turn to match the dark grey of the shadows all around him.

  The streaks of colored mist made his thoughts return to Lancelot. Where was she? What was she doing? He tried to get her out of his mind but as much as the Meursault in his hand mesmerized him, it also reminded him of the three fights he had lost, and when he thought of that he was inevitably reminded of the young woman pretending to be an alien, extremely proficient in her ability to kill, yet more out of place in her spot in the galaxy than anyone he had ever known.

  22

  Talbot knew better than anyone that the classic tales were filled with stories of men and women of all ages, each struggling to find their way through life. All of the stories Margaret had told him when he was a child still lingered in the back of his head. He identified with the characters in those fables more now than ever. In some stories the main character was an old man and in others a young girl, sometimes a teenage boy and sometimes a widowed mother. Each of them was united by suffering some setback in life that made them question who or what their destiny was. It might have been a fight versus a monster or a disagreement with a resentful family member. In the end, each character came away knowing what type of person they were meant to be.

  By himself in the dark of night, laying on the ground in the middle of the fields of Aromath the Solemn, Talbot enjoyed looking up at the stars and imagining he was a character in those fables. All around him, bugs chirped. Little animals popped out of holes in the ground, inspected him from afar, then ducked back under cover.

  Talbot’s problem—one of his problems—was that all of those stories were hundreds or thousands of years old. They were tales that had been passed down from one generation to another for as long as people could remember. Because of that, all the stories his mother had told him had taken place in the forests and fields around CamaLon. He lived in an age when a destiny wasn’t as simple as striding across the woods but could take place anywhere within millions of light years. There were hundreds of thousands of planets in the known galaxy. The thing he was supposed to do with the rest of his life was out there on one of them. However, he didn’t know which one, or even what that destiny was supposed to be. It wasn’t fighting for his life or leading a fleet into battle, but it nonetheless felt like an overwhelming burden.

  The only thing he knew for sure was that he wasn’t meant to be an officer of the Round Table. Seeing his comrades die in the Carthagen tunnels had been proof enough of that. If he needed another reminder that he wasn’t cut out for that type of life, it was seeing how the people responded to his father.

  They adored him. They held him as supreme over other men and women. They called for him to rule.

  It was all too much.

  Talbot knew he wasn’t like his father. Choosing to be in the empty, quiet fields rather than in the middle of the celebration had been proof enough of that. The insects and little furry creatures offering their unique noises were preferable to the humans and aliens cheering in admiration.

  What to do then? If he explained his situation to his father, Julian would say, “Well, you can’t very well make a living out of laying on the ground and looking at the stars. You actually have to do something.”

  It was true. But what else was there that would make him happy?

  That was the thought that kept him awake most of the night. When he got too tired, instead of walking back into the city, to his home, and getting into bed, he merely closed his eyes and slept out in the fields.

  Fields Outside CamaLon, by Chris Dietzel, digital art

  23

  For the most part, Margaret had been able to sleep soundly. After waking up and not finding Julian beside her, she had gone to the doorway of his study and asked when he would join her. Almost immediately she had fallen back asleep.

  When she awoke the next time, Julian was finally in bed beside her and she couldn’t be sure how much time had passed. What woke her was her husband’s voice; he was talking in his sleep. It was something he had never done before the campaign to the Cartha sector, so just a few mumbled words from him were enough for her to open her eyes and become alert.

  “Who?” Julian asked in the slurred speech of sleep. “A ceremony...” His already closed eyelids squinted as if concentrating. “They’d murder me if I choose wrong?”

  That was when Margaret put a hand on his chest and patted him. “Honey, you’re having a bad dream.”

  His eyes darted open and he scanned the room. Seeing that they were alone, he resettled his head against his pillow. She asked if he wanted to tell her about the dream and he frowned.

  “A man in robes tried to tell me something,” he whispered, not looking at her, choosing instead to stare at the corner of the room as if someone might appear there. “But I can never fully understand him or remember his message when I wake up.”

  “Did he tell you someone might try to murder you?” she said, hoping it might jog his memory.

  “The streets were graves,” he mumbled, lost in thought. “Blood drizzled down the alleys. In the middle of it, I think a voice told me to beware which path I choose.” He cringed and added, “The funny thing is I swear I heard the same thing the other day while I was awake.”

  He rubbed at his eyes and sat up in bed. There was no sign of the sun yet, and all Margaret could see in the room were the outlines of their furniture and of her husband.

  Julian said, “ ‘Cowards die a thousand deaths during their lifetime.’ We’ve all heard that saying.” He rubbed at the scars he had brought back with him from Orleans. “I’ve already died a couple times. Does that make me a coward?”

  “Of course not, Julian. Of course not. I don’t know anyone more brave than you.” She smiled and gave him a nudge with her elbow. “Brave and foolhardy... and stubborn... and—”

  “Okay, I get the point,” he said, but she could hear the smile in his voice. His tone turned grave, though. “I’ve seen so many wonders out there,” he said, motioning toward the sky. “It seems odd to me that anyone should waste time fearing death when we all know we eventually will one day.”

  She was about to say something but Julian had a habit of opening his mouth and clicking his tongue when he had something else he wanted to say but was still processing the idea. She knew him well enough to know that if she interrupted his train of thought he might never get it back.

  Finally, he said, “I get the feeling, in the dream, that I’m being warned.”

  “Of what?”

  He shook his head and sighed. “I don’t know. Making or not making a certain decision.”

  “What decision?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. But what I do know is that if I don’t keep doing what I think is best, I’ll become that scared man I never was before.”

  24

  A couple blocks away, Portia put a hand on Hector’s cheek. He opened his eyes and smiled. One of the things he liked telling her was that no matter how dreadful a place the universe sometimes seemed to be, no matter what issues plagued him, each day began on a good note as long as he opened his eyes and saw his wife looking back at him.

  “Did you settle things with your associates?”

  He rolled his eyes. “As much as it could be settled.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  He rolled on his side so he was at the edge of the bed. There, he took a band of metal from his night table and attached it to a device that was permanently fixed to his waist. With the energy disk ready to be used, he flung himself out of bed. He was sailing out and down. Then his energy disk ignited and he was rising back up toward his normal elevation, hovering in place.

  “I don’t want to think about it myself, let alone talk about it.”

  “Do you mind if I ask something?” Portia said.

  “Of course not.”

  “Why were the men wearing hoods?”

  The corner of his mouth curled into a frown. “Because they didn’t want to talk about it either. Not really.”

  Portia propped herself up on one elbow. “It’s that serious?”

  The look he gave her before going to splash water on his face said it was.

  25

  At the edge of the known universe, a giant ship lumbered through space. In size, the vessel resembled a moon more than it did a flagship. It was larger than any of the enormous rocks in the Orleans asteroid field that it approached. In shape, it bore a slight resemblance to the result of combining an Athens Destroyer with a Flying Fortress. It had the jutting edges and sharp angles of the first ship, and the large disc-like proportion of the second. The resulting vessel, though, due to its size and design, ended up resembling neither craft but something more ominous, unknown to even the most travelled galactic cargo haulers. Although not black like the metal of the HC Ballistic Cruisers, it was darker than the atomized steel that made up the rest of the Round Table fleet. Barrels protruded from every side. Each cannon was larger than the combined firepower of a Solar Carrier’s entire arsenal and would be capable of letting loose blasts of energy comparable only to the Crown that defended Edsall Dark.

  Approaching the Orleans asteroid field, the colossal ship looked as though it were going to ram the asteroids directly in front of it. Unlike a flagship of the Round Table, infinitely smaller in size and able to slowly navigate the gaps between each hunk of rock, the Juggernaut was too large to attempt a navigation of Orleans.

  Instead of attempting the feat, a pair of projectiles shot out from the front corner of the vessel. One soared into Orleans as fast as a streak of laser, curving and bending as it went to ensure a safe route through the field. The other projectile flew in a straight course, barely travelling faster than the ship it had been launched from. A moment before hitting the nearest asteroid, the nearer of the two metal cylinders exploded. Rather than destroy the rock in front of it, the device erupted into a flat ring of energy, larger even than the ship. On the far side of the Orleans asteroid field, the other projectile did the same thing.

  Instead of flying through or around the asteroid field, the Juggernaut flew directly into the wall of energy in front of it. As it did, each part of the ship to make contact with the ring of light disappeared. Travelling at a normal cruising speed, it took five minutes for the entire vessel to vanish.

  A moment later and thousands of miles away, each part of the Juggernaut that had disappeared through the first portal reappeared from the second portal.

  Eventually, the enormous craft was completely past the asteroid field without ever slowing or changing courses. In the middle of the Cartha sector, the Juggernaut continued on its journey, inching closer and closer to the former kingdoms which now comprised the Round Table.

  No longer needed, the portals that the Juggernaut had employed collapsed back into metal cylinders that immediately began to make their way back to the ship. A minute later, the other projectile, having raced through the asteroid field, also returned.

  The Juggernaut continued on.

  26

  Arc-Mi-Die paced from one side of his room to the other. He was fully aware of the irony: he was avoiding galactic justice by putting himself inside a self-made jail cell.

  His Woghort guards were gone for exactly one hour while they ate a meal. Although almost no one in the galaxy knew where he was and even fewer had any contact with him, the presence of his guards was a near constant. The little bit of time each day that they dined on still-living rodents, provided by the warlord, was the only time Arc-Mi-Die was completely alone. He used the time to leave the protection of the automated defense perimeter and the Treagon barrier inside it. When he heard the security chime indicate the guards were making their way back to the room, he went back to the confined space. He was fond of thinking that the pure dedication required of him was what separated him from other historic space criminals who had possessed extraordinary ambition.

  After news had come back that the Excalibur ship above Edsall Dark had finally been destroyed, Arc-Mi-Die had ordered the destruction of another colony. This wasn’t to achieve a major milestone in his plan as much as it was to remind the people he was still out there, still capable of terrorizing the universe as he pleased. If he had intended the attack to do more than simply cause panic he would have chosen a more worthwhile target than some out of the way colony. The beauty of the latest attack was in the very fact that Crantive-8 was a minor colony. It was one thing to threaten the Round Table’s capital—it showed Arc-Mi-Die’s strength. It was quite another thing to attack a colony few people knew of because it made everyone realize the next attack could happen anywhere. It sent a wave of paranoia through all of space, kept his name on everyone’s lips.

  The only thing Arc-Mi-Die hadn’t counted on was that Dr. Ythoul-Ythoul, who was one of the most recent scientists to be kidnapped, had ended his own life rather than continue to be forced to work for the warlord. The physicist wasn’t vital anymore so his loss was of no consequence in that regard. Other scientists were capable of picking up where Dr. Ythoul-Ythoul left off and the scientist wasn’t the first causality in the warlord’s secret lair. Dr. Runnington, a chemist, had been decapitated by a guard he had insulted. Professor Thourough-U had been so despondent after being kidnapped that he had trapped himself in an airlock, leaving the guards no alternative but to release the hold and send the professor into outer space without a protective suit where he of course died immediately.

  None of that mattered, though. As long as the majority of the scientists believed they would one day be allowed to go home, the necessary work would be completed and Arc-Mi-Die could bring the Round Table to its knees.

  Through their inaction, the group of elected representatives on the other side of the galaxy had given Arc-Mi-Die all the reassurance he needed to know he would eventually ruin them. After all, another colony had been destroyed and the representatives still couldn’t decide the appropriate response.

  In contrast, Arc-Mi-Die had no problem figuring out what to do. Another Excalibur Armada vessel was already on its way to the site of the next attack.

  27

  Hector rapped his knuckles against the thick wood door. Upon waking up and having a conversation with Portia, followed by a small plate of food, he had wasted no time in getting to Julian’s home.

  The door opened and Julian was there, barely awake. He yawned and asked what Hector was doing at his house so early.

  “So early?” Hector said. “I almost came over in the middle of the night.”

  Rather than seem alarmed by Hector’s urgency, Julian gave a half smile and rubbed his eyes. “My friend, always so serious.”

  As Julian turned to walk back toward his study he motioned for Hector to follow.