Kinfild guided his shuttle up into Eight’s atmosphere, navigating around debris and the falling corpses of starships. He tried to keep to the edge of the battle, but it wasn’t always possible. He dodged a pair of enemy starfighters, evaded a rocket, and pressed his hand against the viewscreen and launched a Hollow Dragon’s Bite technique directly out into space. It blinded a turret’s gun crew long enough to slip past.
As soon as Eight’s gravity stopped tugging on him, he activated the technique card stolen from the battle with a dreg of pure Aes. A circle of runes manifested in the air, swirling in front of the shuttle’s tip. It would allow him to pass unhindered through the enormous torpedo net at the edge of the star system.
The shuttle flashed off into the empty void, steaming towards its destination: Graltir V.
He sat still, unmoving and quiet for nearly a half-hour. The palace guard’s tooth-marked pauldron waited in his lap.
A sensor warbled, warning him that he had almost arrived. He pulled the starship out of hyperspace at the last possible moment, milliseconds before a deadly collision with the planet. When the golden light peeled off the viewscreen, he had nearly already entered the upper atmosphere. He didn’t slow down.
His labourer kyborg kept them at top speed as they descended through the atmosphere. It only took seconds to reach the surface, and he didn’t care if it caused incredible wear to the ship. He pulled up. The hull creaked and the thrusters screamed, and the shuttle’s course flattened out only a few feet above the surface of one of the planet’s oceans.
Graltir V was a terrestrial world with vast oceans and grassy landmasses. At every edge of its largest continent were white cliffs. They weren’t extraordinarily large, but they were enough to catch Kinfild’s eye as his starship skimmed over the sea.
He couldn’t help but smile when he pulled up. Nearly two-hundred starships had gathered in the open fescue fields atop the cliffs. Old concrete landing platforms lined the plains, cracked and weed-infested. There were battleships, destroyers, cruisers…every type of ship that the Starrealm could build, he saw at least one of.
They just awaited Kinfild’s word.
Kinfild guided the shuttle just over the cliffs, then circled around over the fleet, searching for any sign of Lady Fairynor. She would be here, awaiting his summon and whatever news he might bring.
A holographic banner fluttered near the edge of the fleet, rippling in the wind. It was yellow with a red cross, but instead of a crest in its corner, there was a simple brown crown directly in the center—the symbol of the First Attendant’s family. It had to be Lady Fairynor.
Kinfild descended toward the banners. They fluttered in front of a Starrealm battleship. A cluster of tents waited outside the battleship’s main boarding ramp, and there were plenty of officers waiting around, pointing at holographic maps and discussing amongst themselves.
There was no time for a tasteful entrance. He set the shuttle down just beside a tent, and the downdraft of its repellers ripped the white tarp clean off the frame. As soon as he heard the landing gear clack against the concrete platform, he threw off his crash harness and stood up, then ran to the shuttle’s passenger hold and lowered the boarding ramp.
He grabbed his staff and marched out onto the landing pad, but not before two of the First Attendant’s family guards intercepted him. “Stop right there, sir,” one said. “Who are you, and what is your purpose—”
“It’s Kinfild!” the other guard exclaimed. “Of the Crimson Table! Let him through.”
They both stepped aside, and Kinfild dipped his head thankfully. He stepped out onto the platform—onto the concrete. Grass peered through the cracks, and mud had overtaken sections of the platform. Kinfild stepped carefully, making sure not to trip over hidden landing equipment or Aes tubes.
He marched to the only intact tent nearby and ducked under the entrance, then approached the central table. He dropped the palace guard’s bloodstained and shadow-Aes-stained pauldron down on the table. Three figures stood across from him, and he locked eyes with them
The tent was dark. Only a small, yellow-glowing lamp lit the room. Aside from the three silhouettes, there was no one else in the tent.
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Kinfild began, “Is Lady Fairynor—”
The three silhouettes turned around. Too late did he see it. They were men in brown cloaks and woven leather robes, and when they stepped out of the darkness, their eyes glinted with malice. They were Watchmen here to intercept him.
Two of them drew their Whistling Blades—one was blue glass, and the other of green glass. “Kinfild,” one of them said (he couldn’t see who; their hoods shaded their mouths), “you are under arrest. Return to the Wall to face your judgement.”
“Now, one moment.” Kinfild stepped back. He lifted a finger from his staff and pointed it at them. “I wasn’t operating that starship, and you—”
“We have our orders, and we will not yield,” said one of the Watchmen. “The Generous Hand In The Shadows decrees it, and so it must be done: you and an illegal-Path hyperspace Wielder breached the walls, and thus, you must be destroyed.”
Still, only two of the Watchmen had drawn their swords. A quick spiritual scan told him they were both only at the Pillar-Forming stage. The man in the center was awfully quiet, and he was veiling his core so well that Kinfild couldn’t even get a dribble of information from him.
“I will not go with you,” said Kinfild. “I must speak with Lady Fairynor at once, and you will not stop—”
Before Kinfild could finish, the two Watchmen with their swords drawn converged. They held their blades high. Kinfild activated his fortification card, strengthening his limbs.
The Watchman with the green Whistling Blade lunged. Kinfild batted the weapon aside, then struck the man in the sternum with the tip of his staff. The Watchman stumbled back, coughing.
The Watchman with the blue blade swung, but Kinfild deflected the weapon into the ground. The third veiled Watchman stood silently, arms crossed over his chest.
Both of Kinfild’s assailants stumbled back, but they caught themselves, then charged together, swords outstretched.
Before they could strike, a flash of bright orange light seared across Kinfild’s vision.
Both of the attacking Watchmen collapsed, a charred gash in their backs. Kinfild hadn’t seen the incident with his eyes, and it hadn’t been his doing, but when he shut his eyes, he relied on his spiritual senses to observe surroundings at a slower pace. The third Watchman had drawn a Whistling Blade, an amber-orange length of glass with a brilliant white edge, and he had hacked through Kinfild’s blue-sworded foe. In an instant, he had spun around and impaled the other, green-sworded Watchman. Before their bodies fell, he had flicked the blood off his sword and returned it to its sheath.
“You are Kinfild?” the third Watchman demanded. “Kinfild the Gentle, who has provided great counsel to the Starrealm in decades past?”
“That…is my name,” Kinfild replied. He leaned on his staff, then glanced at the two bodies. “You killed your comrades.”
“They are not my comrades, not anymore.” The third Watchman knelt over the corpses of the others. He pulled back the hood of one, then tapped the neck of one of the fallen. The skin bubbled, red and angry. There was a horn-shaped scar in the center, and it seethed with black shadow-aspect Aes.
Kinfild tried to swallow, but his throat had gone dry. “And who are you?”
“I am the Ashen,” said the third Watchman. “I serve Lady Fairynor. I am her Champion.”
“Where is she?”
“When we, the Watchmen, arrived, she retired to her battleship and to the bridge,” the Ashen said. “She instructed me to bring you to her.”
“You are a Watchman yourself?”
“I was. I can blend into many places very well, and I can play many roles.” The Ashen tapped the pommel of his Whistling Blade with his fingers. Still, he kept his hood tight over his ears and drawn in front of his face—Kinfild could barely even see the man’s eyes, now. “I will bring you to Lady Fairynor,” he said.
They walked out of the tent, and as they left, Kinfild snatched up the shoulder pauldron he had brought. They scurried across the landing platform. Kinfild glanced around, keeping aware of any Watchmen—or other foes—who might be approaching. The Watchmen were still hunting him.
“You are safe for now, Wielder,” said the Ashen.
They marched up the battleship’s long boarding ramp. Another pair of Lady Fairynor’s guards met them at the top of the ramp, then led them through the winding corridors of the vessel. It was utilitarian and bland, and there were large chunks of exposed machinery and inner-workings.
At the end of the hallway, they reached an elevator. It shot up through the hull of the battleship and to a command bridge. When they reached the top, the doors hissed open. They stepped out into a broad, open room with white holoscreens and Starrealm officers. It had been divided into two levels, and Lady Fairynor stood at the front of the upper level. She stared out the bridge’s windows, facing away until the Ashen announced their presence.
“Kinfild.” Lady Fairynor turned around to face him. “I’m sorry about the uninvited guests.”
“Your friend was quite helpful,” Kinfild replied. He held out the pauldron, and didn’t waste a moment. “Celacor has nearly fallen. We need your help, my lady.”
She took the pauldron in her hands and examined it. “Yes, this should do quite well to appease the parliament.” Turning around to face the Ashen, she said, “Alert the fleet. We depart immediately.”
The Ashen, who had dropped to a knee, rose to his feet and nodded. “Yes, my lady. It will be done.”