Sleep taunted Skylar all night. He tossed and turned miserably, his thoughts raging with the battle yet to be fought.
When morning finally arrived, he welcomed it—an escape from his overwrought imagination. Could today's outcome possibly be worse than what I imagined last night? he wondered. Perhaps there would be no battle, after all. Perhaps Morvath would see for himself that Athylian was alive and flee in terror. No. It would never happen. Blood would be spilt. Skylar knew it. But whose? He closed his eyes and prayed with an aching heart that Haladrian lives would be spared; that those he cared about would be spared; his own life sacrificed, if need be.
Unlike the other troops, he spent the night at his home in the Gorge, not at the encampment. He knew it very well might be his last time at home, his last chance to see his mother. Lasseter had approved it, provided Endrick stay with him.
"I wish you wouldn't fight today, Sky," she said as he prepared to say farewell. "You're still so young. Let those with more experience go to war."
"And watch them risk their lives and be slaughtered by our enemy, while I sit idle and safe at home? No, Mother, that I cannot do. This is my battle. None of this would have happened if not for me."
She bowed her head briefly, almost like a reproached child. But when she looked back up, her eyes, though still forlorn, bore a touch of pride. Skylar felt a tinge of guilt, too. His mother knew their prospects of victory were grim. Utter annihilation was their likely fate. Complete and utter. How could a mother not tremble to send her son into such a battle?
"You are right," she said, her voice quavering slightly. "It was wrong of me to ask. You are no longer just my little Sky. You are the prince."
A few tears escaped her eyes and drifted down her cheeks. It pained him to see his mother cry. Gently, he put his arms around her and hugged her as she slowly regained composure. At last, he broke his embrace. The time had come. She forced a smile.
"This is why Lasseter wouldn't let me say goodbye the first time. Do be careful out there, today."
"I will, Mother."
With that, Skylar and Endrick departed.
The desert seemed unnervingly tranquil as they sped along in the small two-seater. The early morning light cast a golden hue on all it touched, already warm. In a few short hours, the desert sand would bake under its gaze, while roiling under the heat of battle.
Endrick maintained a nearly one-sided conversation, preserving his usual candid viewpoint. Skylar felt no desire to talk. His thoughts were as heavy as his heart; both felt like lead. Something terrible awaited him. He could feel it.
"I suspect I'll lose an arm today," said Endrick with indifference.
"That's not funny," replied Skylar.
"...Or maybe two," Endrick went on. "Good thing I've only got the two. Of course, they might also get my legs."
"Or your head," snapped Skylar. "Are you trying to cheer me up? Because it's not working."
"Cheer?" Endrick let out a brief laugh. "No, there's little to be cheery about in war."
"Several legions, Endrick. We have scarcely one. How are we supposed to defeat so many soldiers?"
"One soldier at a time, Skylar...one soldier at a time."
That was all he said. It was one of the few serious remarks Skylar had ever heard Endrick make.
They arrived at the encampment as the troops were just beginning to assemble. The thud of marching boots, all out of time, and the shout of infantry sergeants' commands filled the quiet morning air. Far off, in the west, the dark shapes of the empire's ships blighted the blue sky, like small thunderclouds. Their ships would not be permitted to dock at Cloud Harbor. They would have to deploy their troops from drop hatches as the ships hovered above the desert sand.
Endrick and Skylar quickly made their way through the camp to the command post. An unmistakable tension choked the air. Not a jovial face or lighthearted conversation was to be found. The war council was already assembled, the captains and commanders taking last minute orders from Athylian and reviewing tactical strategy. Skylar listened quietly, registering little of what he heard. His thoughts were on the imminent battle, but not on attack plans and military formations.
"Our only chance of victory is in close combat," said Athylian. "Press your men forward. If we let the enemy stay at a distance, their blasters will overcome us. Eliminate the gap, and we have the advantage. Their blasters can only re-fire so quickly. Eliminate the gap."
The meeting ended a quarter of an hour later. The time for planning had passed. The hour of proving had come. Athylian charged them to execute their duties with all haste and diligence, then dismissed them.
Mechanically, Skylar stood up and followed Endrick out of the tent.
"Skylar," called Athylian's voice from behind him just as he reached the tent's opening. Skylar turned to face his father, who was now standing, his green eyes fixed on him with a gaze that was not King Athylian's, but Lasseter's—the man he'd always known. For an instant, Skylar felt that he was a boy again.
"Yes?" said Skylar, almost sounding like a child.
"Come closer, Son."
Skylar paused at being called son. He suddenly realized that Lasseter had never call him anything but Skylar; never nephew. Now he knew why.
"I've not talked to you alone since you learned about me," Lasseter continued. "I wished to give you time to absorb this news. I can imagine it's been difficult for you. Your strange uncle first claims to be of no relation to you, and then suddenly claims to be your father—and king, no less."
Skylar's conscience smarted at this touch of truth. He still felt ashamed of how he had felt. Bowing his head, he replied soberly, "I'm sorry I ever thought of you as different."
"You need not apologize, Son. It would be hard for anyone your age to have such an uncle."
"It's no excuse," replied Skylar. "You did nothing to deserve my embarrassment. No one could ask for a better uncle...or father."
Lasseter's mouth drew out in a slow smile.
"You have always been there when I needed you," continued Skylar. "I am glad you are my father."
"Thank you. That means a great deal to me."
For a moment neither spoke. Discomfort at exposing his feelings to his father so openly moved Skylar to change the conversation.
"I've been wondering," he began tentatively. "Why did you stay in hiding all these years? Why didn't you make yourself known after Tarus and Morvath tried to kill you? Surely you could have denounced both and regained the throne without a fight."
His father nodded his head faintly, as if he anticipated Skylar's question. He sighed. Sadness filled his eyes.
"Cowardice, Skylar—there's no other name for it."
"But you're no coward. I've seen you—"
"When I lost...lost your mother, Skylar, it broke me. I felt as though my heart had been rent into a thousand shreds. Betrayed by my own childhood friend—one who I once called brother—my dear little girl and my beloved wife and queen murdered by fiends. All for what? A crown; for power and gain.
"'Let them have it,' I said. All I wanted was to have my family back, to keep you safe. So, I ran from it, Skylar. I hid both of us. I convinced myself that I could hide forever, forget I was ever king. Foolishness. Cowardice. I was wrong. Deep down I always knew it."
Lifting his chin up and straightening his back, Athylian's countenance changed from a lamenting transgressor to king, ready to forget the past.
"Never again shall I try to hide from what I am.
"You had every excuse to do what you did," said Skylar. "I believe you did right."
"At the time, so did I. The path of truth is not always so easily followed.
"Listen to me, Skylar," he went on, his voice taking a tone of urgency. "There is one more secret which I have kept from you. I would wait for a more suitable time to tell you, but there's a chance that it shall never come."
He paused.
"Skylar, your—"
"Your majesty," cried a voice from behind. Skylar whirled around to find one of the lieutenants standing at attention in the tent's opening. "Begging your pardon, your majesty, but the enemy advances."
"How close, Lieutenant?"
"Half a league, your majesty."
Athylian moved with haste from around his desk, instantly assuming the air of commander-in-chief. As he strode forward, Skylar noticed something unusual about his gait. He seemed to favor his left leg, like a limp. Suddenly he remembered his father's wounded leg, from their encounter with Madrick's band on the streets of Arsolon.
"That will be all, Lieutenant," said Athylian. "Inform Arturo that I come presently."
Bowing, the lieutenant did an about-face and exited the command post.
"Your leg," said Skylar when the lieutenant was gone. "You're still injured. You can't fight like that."
Athylian placed a hand on Skylar's shoulder, squeezing firmly.
"You needn't worry about me. The only injuries men feel in battle are their death wounds. Go now. You still have your armor to put on."
It was an order. Skylar reluctantly obeyed.
"And remember," added Athylian, "helmet on, shield up, sword strong."
Skylar nodded solemnly, then turned and walked away, forgetting about the secret his father had tried to tell him and lamenting that he lacked the courage to hug him.
Within a half hour, all Haladrian forces were assembled for battle, standing in silent ranks, eyes fixed on the black enemy advancing in the distance. Skylar felt as if Death himself towered before him with a haggard hand outstretched. A soldier on his right, scrawny and gaunt, let escape a sound like a whimper.
"So many!" said the soldier, his voice trembling.
Skylar made no reply. Pity for the boy, perhaps even younger than himself, filled him.
Will this boy be alive at the end of the day?
He thought of all the lives that might be lost. Least of all his own. Was it worth it?
The minutes passed like hours.
What agony! thought Skylar.
He longed for it all to be over, whatever the outcome.
A noticeable hush fell over the troops. Skylar turned his gaze away from the advancing foe. Before them, standing tall and proud on the barricade wall of sandstone, was his father, silver armor glinting in the sunlight, helmet tucked under his right arm, red cape hanging from his neck. The sight of him brought courage and comfort to all who looked at him.
"Let not the advancing foe trouble your hearts," he boomed. "Let not fear dispel your courage, nor cloud your eyes to our cause. Before us lies not death, but freedom; freedom from those who would shackle your lives with the chains of oppression and tyranny.
"Today you fight not for me. You fight not for my son. You fight not for your commanders and captains. Nay. You fight for your wives and children, your brothers and sisters, your fathers and mothers—for Ahlderon! Today you will fight with strength beyond the strength of men, with courage beyond the courage of men. May the Spirit King send his legions to be your guards and strength—an army of angels at your side—and speed you on to victory!"
Unsheathing his sword, Athylian held it to the sky, crying, "For Ahlderon!"
A legion of swords instantly joined his, shimmering like the sunlight trapped on an ocean wave. Skylar, too, held his sword aloft, the words Grim had uttered to him, I will be your sword, my prince, resounding in his mind.
With one accord they cried, "For Ahlderon!"
In that moment Skylar felt that not an enemy in the entire universe could vanquish them.
After that, it seemed scarcely a moment passed before the battle was raging.
Morvath's troops commenced firing their blasters as soon as they came into range. A whole fleet of open-topped transports, fitted with monstrous tires, and capacious enough for an entire unit of soldiers each, came rumbling up like a sandstorm. Two hundred meters from the Haladrian forces, the armored transports skidded to a halt, and the imperial soldiers spewed out from them, firing their weapons of death. Within minutes, stilted blaster cannons sprung up on either side of their ranks, and joined the assault.
Skylar stood poised, ready for action, his heart beating with ferocious intensity. All eyes watched their commander, their king. Athylian waited. The entire enemy force must be on the ground first, realized Skylar. His father would not strike them until he deemed it honorable to do so.
Seconds past. The enemy drew nearer; the barrage of blaster fire grew in intensity.
Then suddenly, with a roar like a lion, Athylian sounded the advance, and vaulted over the barricade wall, the Haladrian vanguard following in his wake.
Skylar clambered over the walls as quickly as he could, encumbered as he was with armor, shield and sword. Once over the wall, he ran with the swift current of soldiers surrounding him, his eyes attempting to make sense of the mayhem before them.
Of the precise moment he was in the battle and not merely racing into it, he was unsure. But he was in the thick of it now. With frantic, undisciplined strokes, he assailed anything faintly resembling the enemy, never certain if his strokes were ever true. All he had learned in training flew out his mind. Amid the din of steel blades crashing, blasters shrieking and men screaming in pain, he felt dizzy. His senses were overloaded. Still, he slashed away with his blade.
Cries suddenly rose up on either side of them. Skylar looked up. On their right and left flanks, fresh Haladrian troops came rushing, cutting into the sides of the enemy host, forcing many imperial soldiers to abandon their forward strike and defend themselves from one side or both.
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.