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Prologue


Excerpt from A History of Urion: Man or Myth

Centuries passed and internecine war changed to intergalactic war with the Tauran Confederation ever expansive. Solar system after solar system fell until they ran headlong into the seven systems which made up the loose association of the Ori.

Seven separate Houses, each claiming descent from the Great One himself, attempted to physically convince their neighbours of the folly of their ways. The Taurans’ arrival provided the catalyst for the birth of the greatest figure within known history.

Stories vary on where he came from, one tells of a meeting of the Great One with a poor farmer, who fed the hungry giant. Afterwards the farmer was asked what was his greatest desire and he said a son, he had worked hard all of his life and had never found anyone willing to share in his hardships. The Great One took pity on him, and asked him to bury the remains of their meal in one of the farmer’s most fallow pastures. As the poor man slept, the Great One returned and breathed life into the bones and meat that lay between the earth. The following morning, the farmer found a mewling babe there and gave praise to His Mighty Lord.

This was then used to explain the differences seen between Urion and other men, how he was marked out for greatness from an early age. Although scholars expostulate that Urion was in fact a half-breed, born from a union between the Taurans and the Ori. This theory has been denounced by the Church Orders as heresy and the relevant scholars excommunicated.

Whatever his meagre beginnings he rose rapidly, commanding men and then armies. He united first one planet and then another, driving the Tauran invaders from his home world and continuing his campaign until he was proclaimed defender of the Faith and given the first of the seven sacred jewels. Here was where his legend was born.

The sacred jewels have been studied and written about in other texts, their miraculous powers have become the property of the Church and no-one can be certain of their true nature. It is written that they were a gift from the Great One himself and given to Urion as a means to unite the people. Whatever they really were or what powers they truly held has been lost in the mists of time.

Tauran fleets strove to exert their dominion over Urion’s forces and system after system joined his banner, until all of the seven Great Houses bowed before him. For each House was crafted a singular jewel, and each jewel was endowed with mystical power.

Urion was reputed to be a giant of a man and the jewels were fashioned into one spectacular adornment which he carried with him into battle. They were set into the buckle of his great belt, on which hung his divine sword. There was no-one who could stand against him and he smashed the combined Tauran fleets in one epic battle.

Urion led his forces against the Tauran Confederation and all fell before him. A lasting peace was enforced and Urion led his people into a golden age. In time Urion was crowned ruler of all known space and he took unto him a wife. Their seven sons grew strong and were given the rule of the Houses of Ori.

This caused much discontent and signalled the start of the First Civil War. Urion reunited his forces and put down the rebellions, in so doing he was forced to kill six of his seven sons, who had been swayed by the entreaties of the corrupt Houses.

Only the youngest of his sons survived, and foreswearing all claim to his kingdom and his rights, he took his young family and was lost from all records..

It is during this period that historians diverge in their recounting of Urion’s life. Some claim that he was mysteriously taken to the Great One’s bosom and rests there still. Other, less religious men talk of poison, even regicide, but the only thing that can be confirmed is that Urion and his belt disappeared. The jewels themselves still reside with the scions of each great House, waiting it is said for Urion’s return.

Of the belt, less is known although this historian would like to believe the story held by the Rigelians, who claim that a loyal servant spirited it away and fled to Urion’s youngest son’s side. The belt is so held to be with the line of Urion’s only faithful son and, one day, will be returned to his long suffering people in triumph.

As this historian has said, it is his fervent wish that this would be true, although being a pragmatist, this writer in truth holds no hope for this occurrence.

In the following chapter, will be described the rise of the seven Great Houses and their dominion over the Tauran Confederation.



*

Cool I like it

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The storm lashed heavily against the shuttered panes; rain tattooing madly, wind howling angrily as it unsuccessfully tried to rip its way inside, and the villagers huddled shamefacedly in front of the central fire. One of their own was outside, ridiculed into braving the maelstrom of wind and water.

None had pleaded with him to stay and truthfully none would miss him, yet they were not heartless people and their actions had been brutal and surprisingly out of character. Kalum, the malformed son of the dead gravedigger received no love from his fellow humans. Even his mother, now remarried, avoided him when she could, a servant bringing the poor youth food and clothing on an irregular basis. His own mother carried the shame of his birth and the obvious evidence of the gods’ disfavour. She sat, pinch-faced, wrapped in her cloak next to her new husband, slightly apart from the others.

A frightened silence gripped them. They neither prayed nor cursed, stoically waiting for whatever the storm would ultimately bring.

*

The boy did not run, he rather hopped and shuffled, his misshapen right leg and foot, his bowed back and oversized head, were not conducive to speed. On such a night, when speed was of the essence, he felt himself handicapped even more. Lightning bolts flashed to the earth, searing the ground in their actinic fury. Horizontal rain stung the boy’s face and arms, even though he kept his thin cloak wrapped as tightly around his body as he could, the wind driving the water through each and every tiny gap.

Pealing thunder rolled menacingly and the storm intensified, as though the gods themselves were angry. This Kalum could understand. It had been beaten into him since he was a small child. Crops failed, milk curdled, animals were still-born and all of this was laid at his door. Deep down inside he accepted it; had not his own mother cursed the day he was born, wishing she had never laid eyes on his father?

Kalum was glad his parents had met, even if his mother’s love had turned to vile curses and hatred. He had at least some remembrances of his father, of his love, and he clung onto them with all his might. Doggedly he toiled onwards, the cemetery coming ever closer, with each painful and hard earned step. It was the one place that he had shelter and solace, among the remnants of both his and his father’s life.

An explosive concussion threw him to the ground, and he rolled over and over, down a slight incline until he was brought to an abrupt stop by the bole of a spindly tree. Looking back, he saw the ground on fire, heaving and boiling from the titanic strike. This was the mother of all storms and he had somehow walked into hell itself.

Another bolt screamed downwards, driving the breath from his lungs with its overwhelming pressure wave. Again the earth complained and molten fire arced upwards in angry response. This was unreal, never had he seen so many lightning strikes so close together, and the colour, not the usual blue-white but a bright orange-red. Climbing to his feet and shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears, he started off once more, leaning into the wind as he fought his way forward.

Suddenly, Kalum was knocked to the ground by a running figure and a third bolt flew close overhead, tearing into a standing rock and smashing it into tiny pieces. His vision blurred, Kalum strained to see his rescuer, the rain running in rivulets down his face. A flash lit up the sky and he saw him; reflexively he tried to scream, but a huge hand was clamped over his mouth and the boy sank gratefully into unconsciousness.

*

Hyas gazed down on the crumpled form beneath him in wonder, could this really be him? The boy’s cape rolled open as Kalum stirred and Hyas gasped in astonishment, the belt! It lay there before him. His search for the scion of the House of Urion was over.

He roared in pain as the needle round struck him, blood spraying outwards. With a snarl he turned, reaching over his shoulder to draw his axe, but his enemies were hidden by the storm. Weapon held firmly in one hand, he grasped the back of Kalum’s cape and dragged him away, bent double in order to minimise his enemies’ target.

Twigs slapped against his face, as he turned away from the lashing of the rain, his long curly hair plastered against his forehead. Another flechette round struck a nearby tree, sending shards of bark spraying in all directions. This would not work, he needed to see them if he was to negate their threat.

Leaving Kalum propped against the bole of a nearby tree, he hunched down and waited, his axe gripped firmly in two huge hands.

*

“Did you get him,” Lepus whispered to Karson, as he peered into the storm-tossed night.

“Yes, but not fatally,” replied Karson, his fingers tapping restlessly against his rifle stock. “He can’t have gone far, though.”

The big man waved peremptorily at his men and a group of them moved away in an attempt at flanking the Tauran.

*


Kalum slowly regained consciousness, his eyes blurry not only from his befuddled state but also from the torrential rain still pouring down. He wiped a grimy hand across his face and stared at the bulky shape of the man crouched next to him.

Lightning flashed, highlighting his saviour and Kalum gasped in shock, the noise causing the man to turn and gaze down at him.

“W-w-who are you?” asked the boy, scrabbling backwards away from the frightening apparition.

The man laughed in a deep bass rumble and then smiled. If this was meant to calm the boy, it didn’t work. His chest bare; the man’s huge muscles rippled as he moved, flicking sodden and curly hair away from his face. Droplets scattered every which way as he shook his head; the pair of curved horns jutting from his brow, showering the boy with the displaced water.

“My name is Hyas,” he said, bowing slightly, “I am a Tauran, as you can see.”

Blinking slightly in perplexity, Kalum said nothing, waiting for any sign of this Hyas’ intent, for good or ill.

“Don’t worry,” Hyas grinned, “I won’t eat you!”

The boy’s widening eyes told Hyas that Kalum had only just considered that possibility, and he laughed again.

“I’ve been looking for you for a while now, following Lepus on his search. Thankfully I got here in time, at least to avoid them turning you into some sort of burnt offering.”

“W-w-what …?” gasped Kalum, completely bemused.

“Don’t talk,” said Hyas concernedly, “you’ve had quite a bit of a shock, and we need to get you out of this, before Lepus and his cronies catch up with us.”

He raised his hand, as Kalum began to speak and looked quickly out into the darkness.

“Time to move, boy”, he said, his great axe now visible in his right hand, “we can talk later.”

Not really understanding why, Kalum followed, the strange looking man radiated confidence and he at least seemed concerned about the deformed creature that was Kalum. It was the first example of genuine interest that anyone had showed, since the death of his father.

Then, distorted by the wind and rain, he heard voices and scurried to catch up with Hyas.

*

“We’ll never find them in this,” whined Lepus, clutching his drenched cloak more tightly about himself, “Let’s get back to the ship and wait out this storm. They can’t go anywhere either and if Hyas does take off, we’ll quickly spot him.”

“But my Lord, “protested Karson, “we’re close, I can almost taste him!”

“Almost, ALMOST!” shouted Lepus, “Well that just isn’t good enough. Now, back to the ship, that’s an order!”

Karson followed Lepus, grumbling under his breath all the while, whilst from the shadows Hyas watched, his hand gripping tightly onto the axe’s shaft. They had been very close, too close for comfort. He needed to get the boy safely onto his ship, and then they could work out what to do next.

“Oh, and Karson?” mentioned Lepus, almost in passing as they slogged their way through the now muddy ground.

“Yes, My Lord?” responded Karson, still muttering as he toiled along behind his Master.

“There is one more thing we should do tonight. The kind of job you like, and one that will cheer you up no end.”

“My Lord?” queried Karson, puzzled at the change in Lepus’ manner.

“Once on board,” said Lepus, his voice hardening, “I want you to personally take charge of the destruction of the boy’s pathetic village. There is to be no trace left of my brother, anywhere on this planet. The whelp we will deal with later.”

“Yes, My Lord!” grinned Karson, in an almost cheerful manner, “Anything you say!”

*

At last, Hyas and Kalum reached the Tauran’s ship, the big man activating the entry code and almost pushing the boy on board, his eyes wide as saucers as he saw the myriad of flashing lights and inexplicable machines.

“As I said,” commented Hyas, “There’ll be time enough for explanations later. Let’s get dried off and I’ll sort us out some warm food and drink. I get the feeling we’ll have some time to kill.”

Kalum winced at Hyas’ choice of words, but he was really only too glad to get out of the storm. The only thought in his head now was of the warm food and drink. As with most young people, he lived in the now and thought little of the consequences of his actions, and certainly not how they might affect other people. In this instance, he could not have known; the evil machinations of someone like Lepus were well beyond his simple comprehension.

*

“Ready, my Lord,” smirked Karson, his fingers hovering over the control panel in front of him.

“Just get on with it,” sighed Lepus already bored with the idea, “then we can continue our search for the brat, with at least one loose end tied up.”

Karson viciously slammed his hand down on the panel, the energy beams already locked on their targets. Once more the night sky was rent by the lashing force of strikes, the power of lightning, in this case, harnessed by man.

*

None of the villagers had changed position. Grouped tightly around the fire, they sat in a less than companionable silence. Kalum’s mother’s lips were set in a tight disapproving line. She could not understand why she had to belittle herself here with the rest of them. Her thoughts briefly turned to Kalum, who she also blamed for this, as she did everything. True to her nature, the last thought that ever crossed her mind was a cruel and spiteful one.

Chapter Four

Smoke rose wearily from the hastily made fire, as it spluttered in its grate. Whoever had attempted to light the mish-mash of wood and sticks was no expert, and small flames licked futilely at the oversized blocks in the fire’s centre. Large drapes were pulled tight against the windows, blocking the ingress of all but the smallest of lights and candles burned waxily on the central table.

A large, overweight man in a stained cassock sat in the room’s single chair and gazed pensively at the young man in front of him. In contrast, this individual’s dress was pristine. A brilliant white surcoat overlaying what appeared to be a chainmail vest. On this surcoat was emblazoned the seven point design of those belonging to the Church’s Militant Order, the Brethren. Close inspection would have shown the pistol holstered in the man’s belt and the pair of short swords crossed and held snugly against his back.

“Cardinal Krun,” the young man began arrogantly, his disdain for the obese and food-spotted clergyman obvious, “you summoned me?”

Krun smiled depreciatingly and then spoke, “Sir Franklin, that is true, and yet you actually came.”

Sir Franklin snorted in disgust and replied, “You are an instrument of the Church, My Lord,” he pointed out.

“Yes, and such a disreputable one, my dear Franklin,” replied the Cardinal, ineffectually trying to straighten his cassock.

“What is it that you want, my Lord, “ asked Franklin flatly, “there is much for me to do yet this day, so I would appreciate it if you were brief.”

Cardinal Krun laughed, his eyes glinting dangerously and belying the carefully maintained impression of ridiculous incapacity for his lofty position that he cultured.

“You,” he said flatly, the timbre of his voice changing, “will make time for me, sir!”

Surprise flashed across Sir Franklin’s face, but Krun held up his hand, forestalling further speech.

“And, you will do exactly as I say,” he spat viciously, “if, Sir Knight, you damn well know what is good for you.”

*
The Church and the One True Faith had begun as more of a political exercise. During the time of Urion, there had been clashes between the priesthood and Urion’s followers. This had basically been over wealth and power, more explicitly, the control of such. Urion had won, as he had in many other things, the debate by might of arms. He had ruthlessly forced the corrupt religious leaders to bow to his commands and had allowed them to practice a reformed version of their Faith. They worshiped the Great One, or at least the general populace did, the Hierarchy of the Church, in fact, only worshipped what they could personally see and touch and ruthlessly exploited their followers.

Urion had needed money to fund his campaigns and he had taken over the Church, filling his coffers with their followers’ donations. It had neither been his best, nor one of his most well-publicised acts, but it had in fact served as a real tool for change.

Militant Orders had been created whose function was two-fold; to fight at his side in the name of the Great One and also keep the machinations of the higher members of the Church in check. As time passed, these original purposes had been lost to all but a select few as the decline of Urion’s Empire signalled the rise once more to the power of the Individual Houses. Within that rise, was also a return to the exploitation of the masses by the priesthood, and in particular their return to the battlefield of politics.

Within the Church, there now remained one true arm of the Militant Orders, the Brethren, who prided themselves on their strict adherence to the tenets set down by Urion, and as such this explained the arrogant attitude of Sir Franklin, towards the overly proportioned Cardinal.

Krun, however, was not all that he seemed, he was also a member of a secret Order. They were the one’s responsible for spiriting away the last of Urion’s sons and keeping his family’s existence hidden. Unknowingly, it was them that Hyas worked for, as they kept tight control of the whereabouts of the holder of the fabled Belt.

Had he but known it, and the capacities of the Cardinal before him, Sir Franklin would have started his conversation with the man differently. Unfortunately, it was now too late, and the overbearing Knight was due a rapid and very rude awakening.

*

Cardinal Krun’s chubby fingers closed around the neck of a golden goblet, which lay at rest on a small table, by the arm of his chair. Picking up the vessel, he swirled the ruby-coloured liquid within it gently, sniffing appreciatively before delicately sipping at it. Sir Franklin sneered, his contempt for the over-sized man before him poorly masked. This was, however, yet another of Krun’s little games; the liquid was nothing more than fruit extract, prepared to look exactly like the local wine, but with zero alcoholic impact.

Sighing contentedly, the cardinal smacked his lips and gently placed the goblet back on the table, his lips stained slightly with the rich colour.

“Oh, this is ridiculous!” snarled Franklin, turning sharply to leave.
“Enough!”, roared Krun, the irate Knight spinning back to deliver a cutting rebuke, but any such retort died on his lips, as he stared into the open mouth of a flechette pistol. Neither was it just any such weapon, its deadly lines spoke volumes and the rock-steady and confident manner in which it was held, caused a rapid re-evaluation of the situation.

Involuntarily, Franklin’s hand strayed towards the butt of his own pistol, but the slight shaking of the Cardinal’s head forestalled any such move.

“You will listen to what I have to say,” stated the corpulent cardinal, “think carefully on your response and then give me your opinion. The manner in which you comport yourself and the basis of the aforementioned opinion, will determine your fate. Now, make yourself as comfortable as you can under the circumstances, and I will begin.”

As the Cardinal began to speak, Sir Franklin’s face displayed incredulity, dawning comprehension, amazement and then awe-struck wonder in swift succession. At last the large man finished and waited expectantly.

Tears formed in the Church Knight’s eyes and he crashed to one knee, his head bowed. Gently, the Cardinal reached out his hand and placed it on the now contrite Knights head, “I know, I know,” he said gently, “and he needs you and your Order as much as his ancestor ever did.”

Then, more business-like, he continued, “I have a ship waiting, to take you to him. You can only bring a small contingent with you, for now. A full mobilisation of the Order would ring every alarm bell the Church has ever owned.”

“The Order has waited many years for this,” replied Sir Franklin, the change in his demeanour striking, “a short while longer will cause no harm.”

“Good, then it is agreed,” confirmed Cardinal Krun, “be off with you then, my boy. Get your men and equipment and meet me at the Spaceport, we will leave as soon as you are ready!”

Krun watched the Knight stride out of the door, his arrogance temporarily banished by jubilation. That won’t last, thought the Cardinal as he chuckled to himself, but it will do for now.

*

Sir Franklin took the front steps to the Order’s main Chapter House two at a time, his exuberant demeanour spilling over and affecting his normally reserved and respectful facade. It was his self-congratulating behaviour which blinded him to the strange situation facing him; the presence of Church soldiers guarding the front entrance to the Chapter House was more than unusual, it was impossible.

He was brought back to his senses by the flat of the hand placed against his chest, barring him entry. Looking up, he saw that the hand was attached to a Captain, whose white uniform, with blue piping clashed with the dark wood entrance.

“Halt!” commanded the representative of the Church, “and state your business!”

The Cardinal was not mistaken, the Knight’s arrogance surged to the fore, as he batted the restraining hand aside, ignoring the insistent official. A barked command set four armed soldiers in his path, their rifles pointing unerringly at the Knight’s chest and the sneer on their faces saying loudly that something had changed. Never would they have dared to impede the work of the Order, unless...

Franklin turned to face the now smirking Captain, his quick glance through the doorway revealing a slumped figure against the wall, a dark stain spreading around its feet. Apart from the Captain, the other four soldiers were the only visible Church presence, but he knew that this would not last for much longer.

“Your weapons!” snapped the Officer, his hand waving imperiously, full of confidence.

“Of course,” responded Sir Franklin, a disarming smile on his face, as he slowly withdrew his pistol and held it out by its muzzle.

*

An imperious barrage of sound struck the door of the Cardinal’s room, causing him to look up from the fireplace in which he was burning the last of his papers. The banging became more insistent, until a round was discharged against each of the door’s mounts, and the wooden barrier was slammed to the floor.

Stately, his anger restrained yet obvious, the Cardinal turned to face the men pouring through the now open doorway. Church soldiers, fanned out, setting up a cordon around the opening, their weapons unslung and pointed at the Cardinal.

His cold gaze caused a number of the soldiers to step back and involuntarily lower their weapons, but a shouted command bolstered their courage and once more they took up their positions. Two men strode through the broken entrance, one covered in the opulent blue silken robes of the Priesthood and the other in his green and gold House colours.

“What do you think you...” began the Cardinal, but a snide laugh, cut across his attempted bluster.

“Well, well,” sneered the small, rat-faced, man whose green and gold clothes hung limply from his frame. A small scar ran down the right-hand side of his face, finishing at the corner of his mouth, seeming to give him thin and extremely elongated lips. “My cousin said we would find you here, plotting, and so we have.”

Krun ignored him, turning to face the cleric by his side, “What do you think you are doing Seiben?” he asked, quite calmly, “I will have you stripped of your priesthood for this!”

The man stared at Krun, his dark, soulless eyes seeming to look through him. He turned to his companion and waved him forward, before turning to face Krun once more. “You, my dear Cardinal,” he said in a flat monotone voice, “have as of now, zero power to do anything. Having been found guilty of heresy, summary judgement will be handed out by the highest-ranking Church Official present, that is to say, me.”

He made as if to move away, and then as though he had forgotten to say something, turned back to face his soldiers. “Kill him!” he spat, continuing on his way, as the sound of pistol fire rang through the room.

The first shot struck Krun high in the chest, spinning him at an oblique angle to the remainder of the volley. Rounds struck him, but not fatally, allowing him to reach for the small box he carried, in the pocket of his voluminous robe. He quickly depressed a number of keys on the box in a pre-determined sequence, sighing as the bleeped acceptance of his signal was received. This was just before the second wave of fire shredded through his flesh, punching him back into his chair in a parody of his earlier comfort. The Cardinal felt his life ebbing out, almost in tandem with the dripping blood which fell from his hand, as it lay draped over the arm of his chair. Each deep-red drop, first ran as a small rivulet across the control box he still held in his hand, before gathering in its lower corner and then softly falling to earth.

A soft scuffing sound, brought Krun’s attention back to the moment and it was now his turn to smile. Lepus’ man would have to make sure of his actual demise and it would give him the opportunity for a little revenge, however petty it would be. As the hot, foetid breath of Lepus’ Leftenant struck against his cheek, the Cardinal flipped a tiny switch on the rear-face of the box in his hand.

His shout of laughter, caused all in the room to stare and so they were able to fully appreciate the splendour of the explosion which consumed the Cardinal’s body, before reaching out its greedy features for them too.

*

Frere Seiben looked up in frightened wonder, as the top floor of the building he had just left was wracked by a shuddering expansion wave and then wreathed in licking flames. He saw the roof collapse downwards, smashing the rooms below and watched the rising plumes of smoke and powder, billowing out in puffs and starts.

He had never expected such a reaction, his life had been spent within the bosom of the all-powerful and manipulative Church. There had never been such sheer defiance and it worried him. The information from Lepus had been clear and damning, the Church’s reaction swift and decisive. Even now, he knew the last remnants of the Order and the insidious Brethren were being excised, like any cankerous sore. Seiben just hoped that it was going a little more smoothly at the Chapter House.

*

Just as the Captain’s outstretched fingers caressed the butt of Franklin’s pistol, the Knight acted, rapidly flipping the pistol over and pulling its double triggers. A percussive round struck the Captain full in his chest, blowing him backwards and then the needle-like shards of metal, from the flechette round shredded the flesh of his neck and face, sending a spray of blood outwards in an arc, as the body twisted away.

Franklin had not waited for the rounds’ effects, rather he had dropped and spun, drawing both of his short swords. His left leg speared out, even as the right bent forward, supporting Franklin’s lunge. The sword in his right hand  plunged into the first soldier’s chest, his left-hand blade balancing his movement. Bunching muscles drove him upwards, his previously idle weapon shearing through fingers and hand, as it knocked an upturned rifle aside. Its unfortunate owner had little time to recognise the pain, as a razor-sharp edge sliced across his throat, effectively ending any cognitive processes.

Veteran Church Soldiers as they were, the remaining two men stood little chance. They were used to a cowering populace, not an angry and extremely skilful opponent. Even as they reflexively pulled the triggers of their rifles, Franklin was past them. Silvery flashes, followed by pearl-like strings of blood were all that showed the blindingly fast movement of his swords. Surprised faces looked down on now gaping wounds and limbless stumps, before they crashed down to oblivion.

Sir Franklin stared briefly at the men, checking them over quickly as he retrieved his pistol. Then, his bared swords held firmly in his hands, he disappeared into the Chapter House, the dead forgotten as he concentrated on the hope of finding some of his Brothers still alive.

*

It had been a useless and frustrating search, the Chapter House itself was damaged beyond recognition, yet there were few bodies. Franklin could only hope that the Brethren had been warned and had made good their escape. Those corpses he did find were of old Knights and servants, interspersed liberally with Church soldiers. Something was strange in all of this, the small contingent at the gate were perhaps not waiting specifically for him, rather any stragglers. This was a mystery he would not solve rooting around the refuse and detritus left by the departing soldiers. His news would have to wait to be shared. The burning priority was for him to make it to the Starport and the waiting Cardinal. A thought suddenly struck him, that was if the Cardinal had not been targeted as well!

Rapidly he exited the building, his half-run carrying him past the now cold corpses and down the steps. The sound of weapons cycling and the roar of an air-car’s engines stopped him in his tracks. Looking up, he recognised the Church’s livery on the vessel, as it settled lower, its automatic cannons whirring as they locked onto his position. Fighting human soldiers had been one thing, but a this close range, he was already dead. Even so, he grasped his swords tightly, determined to at least meet his end fighting.

A door on the side of the vessel opened, its ramp touching lightly to the floor, as the air-car maintained its hover. There was a shout and an Officer, in the now hated livery, hung slightly forwards and beckoned urgently as he quickly scanned the area. Sir Franklin shook his head, his weapons moving into ready position.

The man turned and shouted something into the vehicle and was then quickly joined by another, but this time in the welcome raiment of the Order. A smiling face urged him on and without further thought, Franklin sheathed his weapons and leapt on-board. Firm hands gripped his and, tears stinging his eyes, the Knight effusively shook hands with his friend and Master, Lord Shorn.

*

“So, what trouble have you been getting yourself into, my son?” asked the Order’s Master, settling himself as comfortably as he could into one of the bucket seats, bolted against the wall.

“It’s been a day of shocks and surprises,” commented Sir Franklin, a wry grin on his face, “you could say that I’ve had an epiphany, my Lord.”

“You met with the late Cardinal Krun then?” asked Shorn quietly, waiting for the news to sink in.

“How did you? ... the late?”, stuttered and stammered the Knight, finally just standing there, staring at his Master and waiting for some further information.

Once he had regained a little of his composure, Lord Shorn bade him take a seat and as the air-car raced across the sky, hugging whatever cover it could use to camouflage its precipitous flight, the Master detailed what had happened and where the rest of the surviving Brethren were. Sir Franklin sat quietly, overwhelmed by the depth of intrigue and conspiracy laid out before him, and of whose existence he had absolutely no idea. At times he had wanted to interrupt, to question his Master, but a quick glance of admonishment from the older man was all it took to silence him. It had ever been his way and Franklin once more felt like a callow youth, under the stern and challenging gaze of his teacher and mentor. Therefore he listened, fascinated as the story unfolded, the noise of their flight receding into the background under the mesmerising power of the narration.

*

Frere Sieben smiled indulgently as the worshippers passed him, bowing in reverence at his, he had to admit, imposing figure. The blue and white silken robes disguised his less than athletic frame, their opulence stating loud and clear his rank within the Church. He had, today, given a speech about virtue, duty and obedience, taking his time to ensure that the fear and respect for the Church, held by the common folk, was reinforced in equal measure. The escape of the majority of the Brethren had given him cause to worry, but his involvement in the debacle at the Chapter House was non-existent. His job had been to take care of the traitorous and alleged heretic, expunging ex-Cardinal Krun´s stain from the body of the Church, well before any taint could be transmitted.

That he had done, losing Lepus´ cousin in the process, but the House of Urion was a prolific one; there were many cousins, aunts, uncles and pretenders around. Sieben was sure that one more would not be missed. Truth be told, it concerned him little whether the incompetent was pined for or not, the eradication of the ex-Cardinal had been messy, but effective. No House was capable of challenging the Church´s power by itself and so the Frere left the Great One’s temple in good humour, little concerned for his own safety, nor at the prospect of his pending meeting with the current Lord of the House of Urion. Hands laid across his burgeoning gut, he sauntered through the doorway and slowly walked down the steps leading from the temple to the main street below.

Self-preoccupation could probably be blamed for the lack of his response, apart from irritation, as the air-car hovered to a stop in front of him. Snippily he ushered his guards forward, to clear his path and it was not until the first rounds flashed from the car´s partially concealed auto-cannon, tearing his guardians apart, that he truly became concerned.

*

Sir Franklin had spent the whole day angry, incensed, and he was ready to make someone pay. Lord Shorn had outlined the theory behind the Church’s position, had explained the reasoning for the Brethren’s stand-offish behaviour, but deep down Franklin was a true son of the Church, a one hundred percent faithful believer whose world had been turned inside out.

His life, within the Chapter House, had been protected and his high and mighty ways had blinded him to the reality of the Church’s power and influence. He had been convinced that they were doing things for the best of everyone. Now that had all been changed. His fervour has gone from its quasi-religious roots, to what would be called a heretical fanaticism. The finger which had depressed the trigger, blowing the guardians into pieces, had been his, as were the hands which drew the short swords and the foot which kicked open the air-car’s door.

There was no pity, nor remorse, in the eyes that bored into the terrified Frere’s face. In fact anger now warred with disdain. Suddenly, Franklin knew that death by a swift sword stroke was too good for this man, and so he sheathed his weapons. One large stride down the ramp brought Sieben within the reach of his hands and Franklin grabbed the pitiful priest by the front of his robes, spinning him round to face the crowd of worshippers gathering in front of the temple. A foot to the back of the knees, dropped the man down, into what would in other circumstances have been considered a pious and reverential posture. Sieben´s tonsured head gave little purchase, so Sir Franklin twisted the cloth at the back of the Frere´s neck tightly, holding him in place.

“Listen to me!” he roared, delighting in the feel of the terrified man beneath him, “this thing you have listened to, have almost worshipped is here today, to clarify one or two points.” Sir Franklin kneed the Frere forward, causing him to tumble and fall down the last part of the ramp itself. The once proud priest snuffled his whimpering way down, holding his arms out imploringly to his erstwhile worshippers.

“Do you see,” laughed the Knight, “what power and pride can bring you to? I have some information, which I am sure neither the Frere nor his Masters would wish shared with you. However, I am now beyond their reach, their influence. That which they have hidden from you, I am free to share!”

Franklin watched as the now gathered crowd pushed its way closer, fear and curiosity warring with each other. Sirens had begun to wail, but he knew that he had a short while before the Church soldiers arrived.

“It’s like this,” he began, poking the Frere with the toe of his boot, “It appears that the Church has been somewhat conservative with its truth. All those stories about Urion and how his line died out, were just a little shy of the truth. In fact, there is a living member of the House of Urion, and not one of the usual claimants. No. A real life, descendent of the great man himself.

The Church, allegedly in order to protect our sensitive natures, has kept this from us and has in fact, sided with existing members of the House of the Urion in an attempt to remove this trifling aberration from our plane of existence. Is that not so Priest?”

The multi-hued pattern faded from the screen, being replaced by the blue-white orb, brilliant in its intensity as it radiated warmth out from its violent surface. Lepus had spent the short voyage considering his options and none of them were good; the Church would not forgive his failure and so it could not be transmitted as such. His men knew what fate awaited them and so would keep silent, not that this would avail them of their sentence. Somehow though he needed a grand and plausible lie, one that was so outrageous it had to be true. Karson and his sadistic tendencies, destruction of the village, laying waste to a countryside, all were useful. Then he had it, and visibly relaxed into his command chair, as they accelerated towards the fourth planet.

More lights shone from the surface than he was used to and in a strange expanding pattern, as though a major celebration was taking place. One huge incandescent ball roiled upwards from atmosphere and once again proximity and radiation alarms clanged to life. There was a massive discharge of weapons fire down there, and they were flying directly into it.

*

“Again!” screeched Frere Sieben, his voice breaking and warbling in his excitement. He sat in the Church’s main Temple, watching the viewscreen and bouncing up and down on his seat. Forces loyal to House Urion and the Church itself, had finally caught up with the heretical Knight and his men. Right now, a major battle was being played out before his eyes. When this was all over, there would be little left of House Urion’s possessions here in the capital, but it was a price worth paying.

Air-cars and single-man military mounts, all emblazoned with the green and gold of their House colours, were thrown into the fray. Energy beams lanced forward, striking the struggling shields of the ship which desperately tried to break free from their and the planet’s sticky grasp. Slowly, as though fighting its way through an unyielding morass, the vessel rose, spitting forth its own brand of death and destruction as it did so. The silvery blur of a mass projectile, fired ruthlessly by the Knight’s forces, shot forth from the ship’s Gauss cannon. It slammed its way through the opposing troops, crushing air-cars and personnel indiscriminately. Lurching upwards, the vessel gained ground and from beneath it dropped a spherical object, which seemed to hover for an instant, before crashing into the almost molten earth beneath. With an enormous roar, a fountain of rapidly volatilising earth, men and machines, and a ball of blinding light, it announced its diabolical presence.

Sieben gasped in dismay, unable to tear his eyes away from the cataclysmic forces unleashed by the fleeing heretics. Their shields protecting them, Sir Franklin and his men broke free, their craft leaping away. Those without such protection were less lucky; clothes, skin and bone disappeared in the brutal liberation of power, metal lasted for moments longer, but flashed instantly into gaseous decomposition and joined the rest of the surrounding material, in an ever expanding wave of annihilation.

Sieben felt liquid on his chin, and swiped the back of his hand across his face, cuffing away the drool falling from his still open mouth. He could not look away, the discharge of such weaponry was unheard of by others than the Church. Such bombs had been used to castigate heretics, put down rebellions or make a religious point. They had, however, never been used against the Church itself. War had come and Sieben was afraid.

*

“Ships detected!” came the shout and Sir Franklin peered closely at the readouts. Two of the vessels were expected, the Church always kept at least two craft within sight of the planet, but the third?

“We’re being hailed by the third craft, sir. Shall I put it on-screen?”  the Knight nodded at the communications officer and watched as a well-known face appeared from the static.

“Why will no-one reply to my hails?”, came a whining voice, accompanying the vision of the rear of an officer’s head, the green and gold of House Urion clearly visible.

“I’m listening ...”  prompted Sir Franklin, as the man tried to regain some form of composure.

“Who are you, quickly man, I need an answer!”  demanded Lepus petulantly.

“Lepus, Lepus,” said the Knight quietly, shaking his head gently in admonition, “I guess I am your worst nightmare, a non-bribable Churchman.”

“W-w-what?”, spluttered Lepus, his eyes suddenly widening in shock at the sight of the jewel which Sir Franklin was nonchalantly bouncing in his hand. “Where did you get that?” he shrieked, all pretence at lordliness disappearing.

“I borrowed it from your mansion,” Franklin commented idly, “Sorry, I was a little rough during its removal, but nothing that money won’t fix!”

The Knight turned, indicating to his men that he was finished, and then he turned back to Lepus, as though he had forgotten something, “Oh. Have you anything you would like me to tell Urion’s heir?”

A blank screen was the only witness to Lepus’ howling, his men finally had to restrain him, taking the pistol he waved agitatedly from his hand. The recently promoted Exec. Officer was the one who finally calmed him down, the satisfying crunch of his fist against Lepus’ jaw a feeling to savour

*


Although outwardly calm, Franklin was worried. He had expected a fight, but the arrival of Lepus’ vessel weighed heavily against them. Even an incompetent officer need do no more than add his fire to that of the Church craft. They had not left the planet unscathed, damage control reported hull breaches and shield failures. It would be a close-run thing, their velocity and violence of attack had aided them so far, but it was not a ploy he wished to re-use. No. All they could do was flee.

Orders were given rapidly, firmly. This was no time for indecision and Franklin’s heart leapt with pride as his men responded. They would get the opportunity for one last strike and it had to be effective. Laser batteries were at minimal power, he had pushed all remaining resources to their Gauss cannon and mumbling a hasty prayer gave the command.

The nearest Church cruiser was approaching at maximum velocity, the second positioning itself for a missile broadside. Lepus’ men true to their Lord’s nature were wasting no time in their run for the planet, but he knew that this flight could easily be reversed if they saw things turn in their favour. Lights dimmed as the first projectile was released, a second and third following in quick succession. Difficult to see at any time, the mass-shot was invisible in space; puffs of energy from the underside of his ship the only tell-tale. He watched in the viewscreen as the Church cruiser appeared to shudder, its forward momentum halted by the initial impact. Again it moved, only to be slammed to a halt, as the remaining rounds punched their way through its hull.

It was a frightful weapon, tearing its way into the craft, before being converted into high velocity shrapnel. He had never expected such success and watched in awe as the cruiser folded into itself. Beams sheared, bulkheads crumpled and men died.

“Now!”, his strangled cry, a release of pent-up emotion galvanised his men. His own craft surged towards the stricken cruiser, passing underneath it, shields flaring as debris was roughly shouldered aside. Then they were through, the dying ship acting as an effective barrier. As time extended, moments became hours and Franklin held his breath. If only …

“Incoming!”, he span, the tactical display a horrid mass of lights. Alarms screamed incessantly.

“They fired. They damn well fired …” Franklin’s clenched fist pounded against his control panel in frustration. So close. They had almost done it. A miracle would be needed and they had always been in short supply.

Then he watched incredulously as one after another the missiles’ signatures disappeared from his display, accompanied by an enormous explosion of light. His attack had borne fruit, he had his miracle.

“Jumping in three…two …one”.