Curan had the distinct, uncomfortable sensation that the world was swiftly unravelling, the kind of feeling you get when your children come hurtling toward the farm as if chased by something far worse than an angry Aurox, a rabid wolf, or, Tamet forbid, their mother when she'd just discovered someone had spilled something sticky on her best tunic. The latter being one Curan would rather not think about, for it still sent a shiver down his spine. Worse yet, the cattle—normally a placid, steady lot, inclined to follow his sons like oversized, cud-chewing puppies—were conspicuously absent. Cattle do not simply wander off. Not without a good reason. Unless Denor was in charge of them, which in itself was a reason to wander off. And Curan knew, as sure as the moons would light the night, that there are few good reasons to abandon cows. One of them being robbers, especially when there are about thirty of them, give or take.

So it was fair to say that the man had a good idea what was about to happen. Such was life on Andron VII. One day you were peacefully tending cows and Aurox. The next? Raiders.

He was at the edge of the property just in time to see the last of his sons—red-faced, panting, and with the expression of someone who had caught a glimpse of destiny and decided it looked much better from the inside of a heavily shielded energy wall—lower said wall and then raise it with all the grace and subtlety of a man whose life had depended on it.

“Robbers,” gasped the eldest, trying to breathe and speak at the same time, but mostly failing at both. “Maybe thirty of them.”

“Gurruks or Temrit?” Curan asked, brow furrowing. It was usually Gurruks when it wasn’t Temrit, since they didn’t need spacecraft to raid. Gurruks were like bad weather—always showing up uninvited and making everything miserable.

“No,” said Merdat, the serious one, whose capacity to remain stoic in the face of disaster was both impressive and, at times, deeply unsettling. “Mixed lot. Difficult to peg their identity.”

Curan realized that Tamet had clearly decided to amuse himself at their expense. "Slave traders," he muttered darkly, because of course it was slave traders. It was always slave traders when it wasn’t Gurruks. And at moments like this, he wished Denor were around. Not because Denor would be the difference between grim survival and downright disaster, but because he was an extra body. Four against thirty was a respectable challenge; five, however, gave you the comforting illusion that the odds were somewhat more in your favor.

Failing that they could always try to sell Denor off, or have the boy attempt to irritate the men into leaving.

“Slave traders don’t fight to the death,” chirped the youngest, bright-eyed and cheerful, which was a terribly inappropriate attitude, considering the situation.

“Maybe,” Curan allowed, though he was far from convinced. “But prepare for the worst. And if it comes to that…” He gave his older sons The Look. The kind that carries the weight of many a childhood beating. “Protect your wives. I’ll see to your mother and sister.” He took a small comfort in the fact that the younger children were safely off visiting relatives. Fewer children underfoot meant one less thing to worry about during the inevitable chaos. It also prevented them from being under the less forgiving feet of the raiders too.

Merdat was already imbuing energy into the edge of his sword with the kind of cold precision that could make the steel itself shiver. “They won’t take my wife,” he said, eyes narrowing to match the blade’s gleam. “We shall defend this homestead successfully.”

While this might have been a fantastic thing to say and be recorded into the history books were it correct, it was also unfortunately incorrect.

The Andronians had long ago come to terms with death in much the same way a farmer comes to terms with bad weather—inevitable, occasionally horrific, and entirely up to Tamet’s whim. But slavery? Now, that was a different beast altogether. No self-respecting Andronian would ever stoop to wearing chains, not as long as they had a sword, a stick, or even a half-decent bolt charged up. If you were going to die, fine—make it a good one. But being someone’s property? That was simply inconceivable. This definitely wasn’t foreshadowing regarding what would soon happen to Denor.

Curan called for his youngest to fetch the weapons and turned to break the news to the womenfolk. They received it in the way Andronian women had perfected over generations: with a calm, steely resolve that suggested anyone planning to take them captive had better pack a lunch. And maybe a will.

"If we die," Isala said, her voice as steady as a mountain, though her eyes sparkled with a defiant kind of joy, "Denor will avenge us."

There was a good bit of laughing after that, gallows humour does that.

Curan figured that was more comforting than trying to plan an actual strategy.

By the time the family gathered at the walls, there they were, strutting across the fields like they owned the place—thirty of them, looking far too shiny for their own good. The sun glinted off their raised shield energies, and the whole lot had the swagger of people who believed ‘resistance’ was just something that happened to other people. At the head, a man in golden-trimmed armor marched like he’d personally invented confidence, flanked by two grim-faced Trunians who probably hadn't smiled since birth. The leader was darker than any man Curan had seen, a striking contrast to the cold steel he carried.

“Well,” muttered Curan to no one in particular, fingers tightening on his weapon, “this ought to be interesting.”

"Greetings, Andronians!" the leader called out, flashing a grin that gleamed like his armor—shiny, sure, but about as warm as the average Andronian day. "I am Kundaran, once an officer in the noble army of the Klithar sector. My companions and I are on a hunting expedition, you see. We’re after... let’s say, two-legged prey."

Curan, who’d dealt with more than his fair share of unwelcome guests over the years, was not in the mood for pleasantries. “I know what you're after, stranger,” he called back, his voice carrying the weight of a man who’d heard just about every excuse under the sun and wasn’t impressed by any of them. “You’ll find nothing here but death, and then the wolves may have you. We don’t bury slavers on Andron VII.”

Kundaran’s grin stayed in place, though his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, the way someone might when they realize their winning hand is suddenly missing a few cards. "You should reconsider," he said, with the sort of slow, deliberate tone one might use when explaining fire to someone who kept sticking their hand in it. "A slave’s life is still... life."

Curan spat over the parapet. This, in Andronian terms, was the height of diplomacy. "Some things," he replied, his voice weary but strong, "are more important than life, slaver."

Kundaran's smile wobbled, teetered on the edge of politeness, and finally plummeted into the grim expression of a man who was about to commit murder repeatedly. "Some of my men," he said, in the weary tone of someone forced to rely on lesser intellects, "warned me that you Andronians are a stubborn, unreasonable lot."

“They didn’t warn you enough,” Curan retorted, his voice as sharp his blade. “Or you'd have taken the long way ‘round."

One of Kundaran's Trunians—who had the distinct look of a man who knew tavern floors far more intimately than tavern stools—sidled up to his chief. "There’s no reasoning with this one, boss. Kill him, kill the warriors, and sell the women and boys. We’ll get plenty of credits. But we’d better be quick about it. These Andronians? They’d rather off themselves than be slaves."

"Pathetic," Kundaran hissed, the word dripping with the same contempt usually reserved for cheats and liars. "No sense of civilization. A proper galaxy needs slaves, that’s just basic economics. Some are born to it, some captured, a few even sold off into it. Nothing immoral about it—on the contrary, some slaves rise to greatness. It's practically a public service."

The Trunian merely grunted. "Sure, sure, boss. Whatever you say. But these lot? They’re not interested in a debate. Let’s just kill ‘em and be done with it."

Kundaran let out a sigh of a man cursed to wrangle knuckle-draggers who couldn’t tell the difference between the words fiscal and fistful. "Fine," he said, flicking his hand dismissively. "Send the expendables. But remember—this is business, not a ballad. No one’s going to be singing odes about your ‘bravery’ tonight."

The two Trunians, eyes gleaming with bloodlust and the promise of plunder, shot off like hounds after a particularly unlucky rabbit. Kundaran allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. The Andronians—grumpy peasants with more dirt under their nails than sense in their heads—were hardly the stuff of legend. But they were profitable according to the Temrit. And profit, as Kundaran well knew, was far more reliable than glory.

It was a real shame that a man more accustomed to balance sheets had to get so up close and personal with the acts that altered the numbers.

His journey here had been a remarkable story, full of intrigue and galaxy-spanning exploits, but it had precisely nothing to do with Denor Kara so it was omitted.

He grinned, a grin as sharp as a wolf's. Yes, this would be profitable. Very profitable indeed.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

Of course, Kundaran never missed an opportunity to admire himself, and what a sight he was. Tall, imposing, with the kind of looks that belonged on a painting where he stood heroically in the background, gazing into the middle distance. His skin was the rich, dark hue of onyx, his nose as sharp as his wit (or so he told himself), and his cheekbones could’ve doubled as weaponry. He looked every bit the aristocrat, and had mastered the most important skill of all: faking sincerity with a face that could’ve sold snake oil by the barrel.

And in the cutthroat business of raiding, sincerity was a very valuable commodity indeed.

Kundaran, you see, had what might be called a ‘talent for survival.’ A knack, if you will. If loyalty were a beast, he’d have fed it to the dogs and skipped town long before dessert. He had all the faithfulness of an Aurox in a pen marked ‘red rags, do not charge’.

Precisely because of this nature, Kundaran running for his life with some of the galaxy’s finest patrol men and bounty hunters hot on his heels, looking for all the world like they’d just been robbed of a good meal. Since then, he’d found a new vocation: crime. And as far as banditry, slaving, and general villainy were concerned, Kundaran had graduated with honors. Top of the class. The head of a very dubious class, but a class nonetheless.

Now here he stood, before the Andronian farmstead, his eyes glittering like a crow’s in a field of shiny things, savoring the prospect of a profitable day. The air was ripe with tension—the sort of tension that usually ends in someone having a rather bad afternoon—and Kundaran could practically taste it. To him, the Andronians were simply an obstacle. Stubborn fools, really. And between him and an increasing credit balance, obstacles rarely lasted long.

So long as the numbers went up, he was happy. The numbers had to go up.

On the other side of this impending catastrophe was Curan. The way Curan saw it, Kundaran was just another irritation, a fly buzzing in from the outside world, albeit a particularly well-dressed one. When he noticed a couple of the raiders slinking off like stray dogs that had just caught a whiff of supper, Curan knew the party was about to begin. And while hope wasn’t exactly making itself at home in his chest, the desire to be violent certainly was. Four men against an entire pack of marauding idiots wasn’t ideal, but Andronians had never had much use for ideal situations anyway. If they were going down, they’d make it expensive. Very expensive.

The raiders, apparently lacking even the most basic sense, didn’t bother trying to surround the energy wall. Curan couldn’t help but sigh with a bit of relief at that. Defending a position with four men was tricky enough without some fool on the other side using tactics. When the first wave of would-be plunderers charged at the wall with shields up and heads down, Curan couldn’t help but smile.

Then Kundaran began to glow, and the shield wall vanished.

The first invader found himself quite a bit shorter when Curan’s sword introduced itself to everything north of his eyebrows. The merc dropped faster than a sprinter going downhill, and Curan, already moving on to the next unfortunate soul, didn’t even bother looking down.

He was old, but he was no dotard yet.

Curan’s youngest son hadn’t been given a name by the narrator. Generally this boded ill for his future prospects. He found himself squaring off against a Sorenian who, by all accounts, had been blessed with a flashy curved sword and cursed with an even flashier lack of good judgment. The boy, never one to shy away from creative solutions, held a spear in each hand—because why settle for one when two is twice as pointy? As the Sorenian, who clearly thought sword-swinging was more art than science, made his first dramatic swipe, the boy, unimpressed, promptly flashed concentrated energy from his spear straight into the man’s lower jaw, punching through his shield and through the top of his skull. This was not where the Sorenian had expected his day to go, particularly when facing an unnamed opponent.

The Sorenian, now profoundly less enthusiastic about swordsmanship and life in general, toppled backward. But the boy wasn’t quite done with him. He flung energy from his second spear with the enthusiasm of a man determined to make a point—literally—straight into the Sorenian’s face.

However, this focusing on a singular enemy when there was thirty-nine others had its downsides. As the boy started to look around, a lurking Trunian bolt thrower took the chance to land a heavy blow on his left arm. The pain was sharp, immediate, and deeply inconvenient. On account of the arm now being missing. Still, the boy didn’t utter a sound—these particular Andronians were far too dignified for that sort of thing. Instead he faced off against the thrower, slightly more irritable and considerably more one-handed.

Over on the other side of the battlefield, Curan and his two older sons were conducting their own brand of synchronized swordplay, the kind usually reserved for expert ballroom dancers or particularly well-organized butchers. Three blades rose, fell, and in a synchronized moment of utter indifference to human anatomy, three enemies crumpled to the ground, generously donating several limbs to the local scenery.

“Throwers!” came the cry from a nearby (and also unfortunately unnamed) Trunian, whose face had the distinctly pinched expression of a man biting into an unexpectedly sour lemon—or, more precisely, a man who was interested in bolt throwing to the exclusion of everything else. “Shoot them, now!”

Curan, no stranger to perilous situations, had already spotted the bolt throwers lurking in the chaos and found himself somewhat less than pleased. Dodging one bolt was manageable, assuming you had the reflexes of a man who'd spent most of his life dodging death—and, incidentally, Curan had those in abundance—but dodging bolts while fending off enemies and trying to keep your head attached? That was a whole different kettle of calamity. And sure enough, the air soon filled with the ominous crackling of bolts impacting upon shields—an unwelcoming sound, like a swarm of irritated mosquitoes that happened to be lethally accurate and very good at draining energy.

Curan dispatched two more raiders with what little energy his body had left. And then—ah, there it was—that unmistakable, searing sensation of an bolt embedding itself into his side. He could still fight, of course—a bolt graze was just another irritating detail—but he knew, deep down, that because his shield had failed, the end was rushing toward them.

He turned to his youngest son, his voice as calm and conversational as if he were merely remarking on the weather. "My son," he said, "your brothers and I have a few… final tasks to attend to. You’ll need to hold the line a while longer.”

“Go, Father,” replied the boy, as cool as a cucumber dipped in ice water, even as he casually relieved a Temrit bandit of his hand. “A one-handed Andronian can still give them a bit of a challenge."

“I’d say you can applaud our return but...” Curan looked down at the stump.

“Really? If I die here your last words to me are going to be about mocking my stump?”

Curan nodded, as if the whole affair were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, and leapt down from the platform, pressing one hand to the graze on his side, which may have been a bit deeper than expected. It wasn’t the pain that bothered him—he and pain were on first-name terms by now thanks to sheer age—it was more the sheer annoyance of bleeding all over the place when he still had important things to do. Pain was a nuisance, blood loss a distraction, and Curan did not appreciate distractions.

Sheathing his sword, he reached within instead. His sword was for more refined work. This? This was family business, and family business required something with a little more heft, a touch more symbolism.

He entered his home, where the air hung heavy and still, as if the walls were quietly holding their breath. When he emerged again, he was glistening in the low light like a grim proclamation. Any Andronian within a hundred miles was going to see this, and they’d know to look after his family.

Curan’s heart was calm, as still as a pond on a windless day, as he drew the sword his father had once placed in his hands—drawn now for the very last time. The attackers had overwhelmed his family, but none of them had the indignity of being slaves. A familiar, almost joyous gleam flickered in his eyes as he surged forward, roaring like a man who had nothing left to lose but his temper.

“Andron detonation!” he roared at the mercenaries, and Kundaran’s eyes widened.

“Get back you idiots, he’s going to—”

***

Denor had been walking for about an hour, which by his reckoning meant that he was well on his way to being lost. He squinted ahead, hoping to see the familiar outlines of Curan’s farmstead—a place he’d come to know getting washed up there a week ago.

The sky was a thick grey, the kind that promised either rain or something much less convenient, and Denor’s footsteps crunched against the snowy path that he hoped led to the farm. It wasn’t much of a farm, in the grand scheme of farms, but it was the closest thing to civilization that Denor had seen since leaving Darag’s house.

“You should turn back,” came a low growl from the bushes beside the path.

Denor froze, his heart thrumming oddly in his chest. He still wasn’t used to that. The voice belonged to Ghurmain, the Gurruk shaman he assumed had gone in another direction.

Gurruks, as a rule, were not what you would call sociable. Or friendly. Or even remotely interested in the well-being of Andronians. But Ghurmain was different, if only by degrees. He had, at least, refrained from eating Denor, which counted for something. Plus he could talk if pressed, so if he spoke now it was probably worth listening to.

"Why would I turn back?" Denor replied to the bushes. "Curan’s expecting me. I’ve got to return this meat."

Ghurmain emerged from the bushes, though materialised might have been a better term. One moment he was invisible, then the next he was present. This particular skill (and all the paint) marked him as a Gurruk of the Old Tribes, according to him. So some citation was needed.

“Forget returning the meat, we should feast upon it instead. I sense there will be no farm to return to."

Denor blinked. "What do you mean there will be no farm? It’s a farm, Ghurmain. Farms don’t just—"

The ground shook, cutting him off mid-protest. It was followed by an enormous boom that sounded suspiciously like a large quantity of something had decided it no longer wanted to remain a large quantity of anything. A plume red energy rose in the distance, right where the farm should have been.

"Andronian death bomb," Ghurmain rumbled. "They’re usually quite final."

Denor’s eyes widened. "Curan’s farm! What—what happened?! Did I do something?"

That our hero assumed he was responsible spoke a lot about how things had been going lately.

Ghurmain raised an eyebrow, or what Denor assumed was an eyebrow, though on Gurruks it was more like a tufted ridge of fur. “No, Denor, for once it was not you.”

"Third bit of civilization I’ve seen raised," Denor sighed, even he knew that wasn’t normal. He was already sprinting towards the smoke, legs moving faster than his brain could fully process. Which wasn’t really that fast, so the Gurruk had no trouble keeping pace.

Ghurmain didn’t mind following now, as he seemed resigned to the fact that Denor was heading straight into what was very likely a scene of complete devastation.

As they neared the site, Denor could see the outlines of what used to be Curan’s farmstead—or rather, the lack of outlines. What had once been a modest collection of buildings surrounded by a shield was now a smoking crater. Debris was scattered across the field like a toddler’s idea of artistic chaos.

"I told you," Ghurmain said, in that infuriatingly calm way he had. "There is no farm."

Denor stood there, mouth open, brain whirring in circles. "But—how?"

"Raiders," Ghurmain grunted. "I could smell them for miles."

"Why didn’t you warn them?!" Denor wailed, waving his arms at the crater.

Ghurmain sighed, which in Gurruk terms sounded like a mudslide.

“They were just farmers, if you had gone up to them and…”

The Gurruk pointed a claw at his teeth and generally monstrous looks.

“Oh, right.”

With his own mental sigh, Denor’s brain realised at this moment that it would have to try to figure out who was behind this. Also on the to-do list was to find a deerstalker hat and a good pipe, but that could wait.