Book 0 FIELDS OF FIRE Chapter iii

The evening found the emergency medical ward a hive of activity. From a central control hub just off the main hanger, surgical arenas fanned out in a circular pattern. Doors beyond then took the patient out of surgery and to the main hospital ward. All civilian medical personnel were brought in for duty.

“The Shargassi were going after the fighters defending the living quarters, but since those quarters are so well guarded in the air, we heard some are attempting a land battle on the outskirts of Arne,” Sandan Medina told Carrol.

Sandan's mother Lady Melina Medina de Saulin was a member of the royal court and a numbered cousin of Oriel. Sandan and the Phillipi siblings grew up together on the grounds of Grace Castle. Sandan's father was the fearless Hartin Medina of the Thuringi Air Command and trusted soldier under Maranta. The Medinas always had warriors or medicals in their families, and often times they served in both capacities the way Hartin and Sandan did. Hartin’s current duty was with the Air Command, while Sandan was currently assigned to the surgical unit.

“A land battle on Thuringi soil? They must be mad.”

“The Shargassi will try anything to achieve their madman’s goals,” Sandan replied as he double-checked the inventory.

"I wish Father would let me get up there and fly again," Carrol fumed. "I could take out some of them!"

"I know you could; you have before. But we are at thin ranks here now, Carrol.” Sandan spoke quietly to her. “Besides, I wager General Shanaugh has his hands full of worry as it is."

"What does that mean?" Carrol lowered her voice to match his.

"Do not be coy. Father said everyone in the main port saw you kiss our good general goodbye yesterday. And I have noticed that golden band on your finger even if your father may not have yet." Carrol pursed her lips and slipped her ring hand as casually as possible in a tunic pocket. Sandan snorted in amusement but said no more.

A ghastly fact became apparent to them with the first wave of wounded. Despite technologically advanced weaponry at their disposal, the Shargassi began this war with kinetic weaponry and continued the assault now on the surface with simple bows and arrows. The less sophisticated the weapon, the less that sophisticated Thuringi sensors could track them with total coverage. As soon as a squadron of archers fought their way to access rooftops, the loading of the GPQs came to a halt. The wounds resulted in excruciating pain and the medical bays were flooded with cases. A diagnostician ran a toxin test on.

“It is not merely arrows,” he announced in despair. “These are poisoned arrows.”

The poison was used long, long ago on the Thuringi, so they were aware of its swift and lethal timetable. The wounded were connected to blood filters in an effort to rid them of what poison it could garner. The knowledge it was just as dangerous for the Shargassi to harvest and utilize the poison was of little comfort. Only knowing that as a result the Shargassi did not use it often, was. Three Thuringi were treated with painkillers but nothing eased their agony as they waited to see if the filtering worked.

Maranta ordered Darien Phillipi off the battlecruiser Solenil in order to utilize his pharmaceutical skills. Darien barreled into the laboratory and commandeered the workspace. Although he studied weaponry and fought alongside his brother in the Air Command, Darien was much more adept at harnessing the wonder of chemical reactions. For once Asa Mennar did not complain. He stood by to observe the prince’s work and was astounded into silence.

From the vantage point of the Air Command in flight, Maranta saw the last of the beautiful green of yesterday literally turn brown before his eyes. All of Fellensk was aflame, the air dirty with particulates that reached as far away as Arne. The ocean was a murky brown with patches of rapidly shrinking blue and blue green here and there. The Freen sat anchored offshore, so covered in muck and soot it was unrecognizable as a ship. It looked like a dead island and the Shargassi paid no attention to it. This was fortunate since so much fighting was taking place overhead.

“General, this is the Sendenar Solo. We have completed our final inspection of Gallina. There are no living souls left in the city. We are satisfied all remaining survivors have been evacuated to Arne.”

“That is the last city,” Stuart said over the com in reply. “Everyone is accounted for, even from the countryside.”

“There is another swoop approaching from the west,” reported a pilot when she sighted a Shargassi attack formation. “Coming in low, a full compliment of nine.”

“Let us go,” Maranta said. “The Daven Bau is still loading medical supplies, and even if they miss the Bau they could strike Grace Castle just beyond it.”

The central Air Command hanger was ominously quiet. All fighter ships were canvassing the city, on patrol or in air battles high over the city. Gareth Duncan took advantage of the break in activity by taking an inventory of his tools. He heard his sweetheart Lia Neo call his name. She walked through the hanger with an officer who looked vaguely familiar. It was hard to tell if the officer was coming in from battle or going out.

“Lia! What are you doing here, it is dangerous! You should be in the underground shelters or in the GPQs. They are well shielded,” Gareth said as he hastily wiped his hands clean on a cloth. He tried to kiss her cheek, but she turned her face in refusal. “What… what is the matter?”

“Gareth, I do not want to make this any more difficult than it already is,” Lia said calmly.

“Then do not, sweetheart,” he said easily, but he was mystified by his devoted love’s strange behavior. “Really, you should join your father, Lia. I will be there as soon as I am off duty, and we can work out whatever is wrong. Is there a problem with our plans? Will we not be able to marry once the Armada is in flight?”

“No, that is not it at all,” she said crisply. “The truth is I have come to tell you I do not choose to be devoted to you anymore. I release you from your promises. I am sure you will find someone else to share your life.”

“What?” It was then Gareth noticed the officer with her had an arm comfortably around her shoulders. From the way the officer’s hand caressed her Gareth realized he was not there simply to escort a civilian through the hanger after all. “You have come to…break our devotion? Why, for what reason? You never said you were unhappy.”

“Oh!” She stamped her foot in frustration. His stunned expression made all the carefully constructed phrases she planned fall to the wayside. Lia put it baldly. “You are a mechanic, Gareth, an ordinary lowly farmer’s son. Tomas is an officer who has just made the rank of colonel. He loves me and he…well for goodness sake, you are nobody!”

“For God’s sake, do you have to do this now?” Gareth choked out in embarrassment. None of the other people in the hanger said a word and in fact, they pretended they did not hear anything and most wished they had not. This was hardly the time or place to break a man’s heart, and why the colonel stood gloating over his prize, they did not know.

“Better to let you know now than in the confusion after the Armada leaves orbit,” she explained. “There are precious few people left, Gareth, and I have to make certain choices I would never have had to consider before the now,” she said firmly, regaining her control.

“Why him?”

“I want a husband who will help lead our people and father children who will follow in his footsteps. Colonel Hellick has taken the time to see me despite his busy schedule, whereas you have not said a word to me in over two ginta unless it was in a drunken slur from a cantina com! You; you could not command more than a bar tab!” Her cutting words strengthened her resolve. “I am certain you will be able to find some farm woman or some Air Command warrior woman who will do nicely.”

“You are heartless,” Gareth hissed, wounded to the core. “I have been working to keep us alive just as much as anyone. If you wanted a damn tunic, why did you not simply say so when we first kept company?”

The pain in his voice was plaintive and heartfelt, and for a moment her bottom lip trembled. From what emotion, he could not tell. “Goodbye, Gareth.” She turned, and Colonel Hellick gave Gareth a smirk before following her out.

Gareth stared after them in disbelief. He had no warning, no sign at all she was the least bit displeased with him. Everyone worked overtime and she never complained about being ignored before. She understood the importance of his work schedule. She even said it made the time they were alone together better from anticipation. He made certain to please her with his company and knew nothing but her enthusiasm for his lovemaking. This betrayal of his devotion was not to be believed.

No one looked him in the eye. They were embarrassed for him. Of course, he was just a mechanic. He never had the chance to attend Academy so the climb up the Air Command ladder was more difficult than it would have been with a degree. It was an unfair, noble-class way to measure a man and he would have fought anyone to suggest she would have ever said such a thing about him. But that was yesterday; apparently it no longer applied today. It was not the worst thing he had ever faced, but it was close.

The sudden intake of air in the surgical area created a mass gasp that made the hair on the back of Carrol’s neck stand on end. Even as she turned toward the door, she knew she would hear the words she dreaded: “God of All, no! It is General Shanaugh!” She scrambled to his side.

His ship had been rammed by two Shargassi fighters from behind and forced to the ground in a suicide mission for the two Shargassi. Maranta’s ship was damaged but like any well built Thuringi ship, it protected its pilot from harm on impact. The cockpit shielding had cracked, however, and offered no defense against swarming Shargassi ships. Maranta emerged to sprint to better cover in a nearby building. He was promptly hit just below the collarbone by an arrow from Shargassi guerrillas hidden in high window archways. He managed to pick off his attackers but not before other arrows struck his thigh and his stomach. The Ground Command wore thick armor, lightweight but durable that could turn back all but the most piercing of shells. Pilots rarely wore battle armor in the cockpit since air ships did not require the wearing of the bulky armor and did require use of the tight-fitting pressurized flight suit.

Maranta cursed and snapped the shafts in half with one hand so they would not distract his aim. He felt a terrible burning sensation spread from the sites. Laser pistol drawn, he fired back at his attackers until his squad of warriors and Stuart’s squadron rescued him and brought him to the medical center.

He grinded his teeth in a vain attempt to control the pain. Attendants stripped him of his uniform. Sandan placed him on a bed of multiple air columns designed to keep a patient afloat and comfortable without creating pressure points or bedsores

After the arrows were extracted, Sandan repeatedly ran Maranta’s blood through a filter in an attempt to extract the poisons. It worked with some degree of success on the others, but those warriors were only hit with one arrow. Carrol accompanied Maranta to the recovery area, unmindful of the speculative looks exchanged between the staff.

Darien managed to perfect a more effective pain medicine. Although the injured parties responded positively to the painkiller, the Shargassi poison was beyond Darien's ability to counter with Thuringi materials. Some of the injured with slight wounds were able to sit up and take nourishment, but the deeply wounded did not. Reports came in from other sectors of Arne concerning several groups attacked by this low-tech, last-ditch effort to kill as many Thuringi as possible.

Maranta’s condition worsened. He sweated profusely and tossed and turned in pain. His temperature soared but his mind was on the battle above. “Hartin Medina; get Hartin Medina’s squadron to fly Cross Pattern Three!”

“Prince Stuart has already given the order, sir,” he was told.

Maranta grunted and nodded in approval. “You see, you see? That is our magnificent Stuart, a future king indeed.”

Carrol ran another toxin screen on him and was frightened to discover the levels had increased. She attempted to place her hands on him but Maranta’s mind was back in the present and he slapped them away. “No no no!” he panted. “No treatment like that, Carrol; you will be poisoned as well.”

Sandan pulled her away and said in a sharp whisper, “He is right. You cannot use your Arda power on him, Carrie, so do not even try. You may hold his hand and the like but if you attempt to be noble and drain the poison with your power, the knowledge his troubles could kill you as well, would destroy him. Do not take that chance.”

“I forbid it,” Maranta rasped. “I will live or die on my own terms.” He snorted at the irony of, “All our mighty weaponry and I was taken down by barbarous tools of yesterday.”

They ran another interior view of the embattled general. “Look,” Darien said, and stepped close to the view screen, “What is this little thing here?”

“It looks like a fragment,” Carrol said. “Did we get the entire arrow?” They took Maranta back to surgery. The answer was discovered scant inches away from the point of entry: when the arrow hit the collarbone, it scraped the bone along the side and the broken tip deposited the poison directly into the marrow. It was lodged so firmly into the jagged edge of the collarbone it was undetectable by all but the most sophisticated machines. The poison had hours to work its way throughout his system.

The filter could do nothing more for Maranta. There was little else to do but place him in intensive care and continue to press for hope the Warrior Prince's potions might pull him through. Instead, Maranta worsened: Darien’s best ingredients were already securely packed away on a cargo ship, and he doubted he could find a cure with any of it now.

“What do you feel?” Sandan asked the wounded general.

“I am burning. Burning inside,” Maranta gasped. He tried to sit up, but the pain thrust him backwards into his bed again. No amount of tossing and turning or change of position eased the pain in the least. Sandan assumed Carrol's surgical post as well as his own. The casualties now came in at a more manageable rate, with normal, non-poisoned injuries, and he was confident he could handle the extra work. Carrol sat at Maranta's bedside and took one of his hands in hers. He turned his head abruptly and attempted to appear casual. “My darling Carrol,” he greeted with forced calm, “How good of you to offer your bedside - manner!” He squeezed his eyes tightly as he shouted this last word, unable to control his reaction. “Do not be afraid,” he assured her through gritted teeth, “I have not forgotten what day this is.”

“What day this is?” she echoed.

“Our day one,” he panted out the words in an effort to stay in control. “I promised you, every night would be our First Night.”

She leaned to put an arm across his chest, but she took care not to use her special ability as requested. “I love you, Maranta,” she said helplessly. “I wish I could do something for you.”

“You have brought me joy and love and,” he stopped as a wave of agony swept over him, “the happiest of memories a man could desire.”

“And when you get better,” she said tearfully, “there will be many, many more happy memories.”

King Lycasis paused in the doorway to observe his Warrior General and glanced at Sandan Medina in the operating arena. Sandan flicked a glance at Maranta, then back at the king and briefly shook his head.

The king stepped to the bedside and placed a hand on his general’s head. He saw the matching rings on the hands of the stricken general and Carrol, and Lycasis wondered at the poignancy of poor timing. His heart went out to them. “For my part, I look forward to many beautiful grandchildren,” Lycasis told them. “It was foremost on my mind only this morning, how pleasant it would be to have a Warrior General and his progeny romping about the throne room.”

“I never wanted to deceive you,” Maranta gasped, “but I dared not tell you of my love for her. I know I am not worthy.”

“But you are, my dear general,” Lycasis soothed, “You are the worthiest man I ever knew.” He stopped; the sudden lump in his throat would not let him say anything further. Another spasm made Maranta’s knees draw swiftly upward to his chest, and he grimaced tightly. Carrol patted his arm in consolation. Maranta finally relaxed his legs enough to lay them flat again, but he shivered uncontrollably.

“I made her my wife. Did you know that, my liege? I disobeyed history and married a royal woman. But I love her; do you see? So many years we have lost, so much time spent hiding and denying. I could endure it no longer.” Maranta chattered rapidly, using the words to help ward off his misery. He looked at Carrol with wide eyes, his pupils so dilated there was only a slim ring of yellow iris around them. “My loving wife, my own dear Carrol Shanaugh.”

She brought his ring hand to her lips and kissed it.

“Maranta, my darling hero,” she choked, “Do you recall our Dorea tree? Those initials I made you carve, and you did to please a silly schoolgirl whim.”

“I did so willingly. I dared to dream,” Maranta replied. His teeth chattered. “I am cold.” They put more covers over him and adjusted the thermals of the air columns supporting him. His chills slowly subsided although he was still plagued by spasms. After a few moments, he broke out into a sweat, and flung the covers away. Carrol rechecked her medical readings and adjusted the pain medication. “I am roasting alive!” he howled. “Oh glorious, to return fire on those wretched Shargassi who would deny me my bride!”

“You are not denied me,” Carrol soothed as best as her jangled nerves would allow her, and tried to keep his spirits up. “This will pass, and you will rise and join me. We will decorate our quarters for the trip.”

“No, I think not,” Maranta said in despair. “What was the phrase the witch men of Hunda said of me, Lycasis?” he asked as his gaze drew toward the ceiling. “‘To live and die, to live and die, and conquer’?” He drew in a breath and smiled ruefully. “Typical of the Hunda to make no sense.”

“I do not know what it means,” Lycasis said. “I never liked them anyway.”

Maranta tried to laugh but it came out an unbidden moan instead. Carrol lifted his bandages to check his wounds and noted he was bleeding again. She worked to stop it.

Aura Phillipi came to the doorway. She saw Maranta in agony and the defeat in Carrol’s eyes, neither which the Aquatic noblewoman thought she would ever see. So, it was true; Maranta Shanaugh lay near death and when he died, he would take with him all he knew. She was ashamed to think that way even though the idea soothed her nerves in one selfish respect. Still, she nearly fainted and would have hit the floor had Sandan not caught her.

“Whatever are you doing here, Your Highness? We are doing everything we can for General Shanaugh and his warriors. There is nothing here that requires an Academy linguist. You are to return to the safe lower levels of Grace Castle and stay, do you understand?”

She looked up. Sandan was an imposing figure, the tallest man of his age with shoulders as broad as a doorway. She nodded meekly. He smiled and gestured to an orderly to escort her away. Sandan thought it a nice gesture that Aura gave Carrol and Maranta her support even though it was taking a foolish risk. Well, she was a noblewoman civilian; he did not expect her to think in terms of battle dangers and emergencies. He returned to duty.

Maranta paused in the midst of writhing in pain with a strange calm of sudden revelation. “Mind you, Lycasis Phillipi, there will be another after me, a great warrior unlike any before him. He will save our people.” It must have been delirium, but his eyes said he believed it with all his heart.

“I expect a son of Shanaugh to do no less,” Lycasis said gently. As Maranta looked at him and nodded, the nodding grew into a convulsion. Darien pushed his way in and pumped a vial of fluid in his arm. The convulsing stopped, and Maranta lay back and smiled at Darien.

“There is a good lad,” he said with effort. “Your potions do you well.”

"What potions?" Lycasis wondered what Darien was doing with a tinsure applicator in his hand.

"Like it or not, Father, sometimes Hunda potions are for the betterment of us," Darien said bruskly. He felt of Maranta's brow. “Maranta, your fever is enormous. We must get that down for you.”

“My blood is on fire,” Maranta told him. “I can feel every capillary, and they burn within. Only your potion makes me not care.”

“There has got to be something else I can do,” Darien muttered, and returned to his temporary workstation.

“Your Majesty, the Shargassi attack has been fully repulsed at last,” a soldier reported to Lycasis and his Warrior General. “Prince Stuart's group took out those archers on the roofs, and Major Corrin’s squadron drove back the wave of infiltrating ships. The skies are again clear over Arne and all of Thuringa, and the ocean ship is intact as well.”

“I must return to the Throne Room to complete evacuation plans,” Lycasis sighed, and placed his hand over Maranta and Carrol’s. “I bless this union," he said simply, in hope it might have a future. He withdrew from the room.

Maranta smiled through his pain at Carrol. “Do you recall when you first caught my loving eye? I was keeping company with a woman at a cantina bar and you came in wearing your new officer’s uniform.”

Carrol wiped the sweat from his brow. “I remember. You held your leg out to impede my progress. You said, ‘Where do you think you are going, little girl?’”

“I was well into a tall glass of Thelan wine,” Maranta confessed. “By the end of the evening, the woman left because all I did was chat with you.”

This was a purely private matter between two lovers, and the attending staff discreetly left the room. It was best to give them whatever time they had left together, to themselves.

Quentin Shanaugh served as Warrior General for nearly four hundred years. His only child Maranta was born long after the rest of Thuringa assumed Quentin and Areina Shanaugh would never have children. The birth of Maranta, son of the Warrior General, was celebrated not only by the extended family of the traditionally warrior clan of Shanaugh and the noble Gordons but hailed by the royal family as well.

As Maranta grew and matured, he eclipsed even the storied deeds of his proud father. Maranta rose through the ranks of the Royal Thuringi Air Command swiftly. Although Quentin never showed favoritism toward his son, it was obvious to all Maranta had a natural talent for leadership and the military life. Every mission he undertook resulted in triumph whether by brute strength or wile. His swordwork on the ground was remarkable, and his missions into deep space to aid other worlds grew into legends. He never knew anything but service to his king and never professed to want anything else.

Quentin was seven hundred fifty-two years old when he passed away, his old body worn out from many years of duty and his personal battle with advancing age. He was laid to rest next to the grave of his wife Areina in a full honors funeral attended by most of Thuringa's citizens. Maranta stood near the head of the casket as the Bishop of Gallina droned on about “the Path of the God of All, the road we must all take at the end of our journey in this life."

Maranta did not really pay much attention; he attended many funeral services for soldiers and civilians alike and was used to the words by now. His only thought was how nice it was that Father and Mother were together again at last. She had been gone for nearly a century and Father missed her greatly. The two Elder Thuringi were at peace and all Maranta felt was relief for their sakes.

The bishop finished his speechmaking. As one, every warrior in the dense crowd drew their swords and lifted them skyward in the traditional farewell of the Air Command and all shouted in unison: "Shanaugh!" The crowd dispersed slowly as each warrior and civilian came forward to touch Maranta on the shoulder or arm in sympathy before departing for home.

Lycasis considered whom he should name as Quentin's successor carefully. His advisors submitted several names, each of them suitable in their own right, but none made Lycasis comfortable with placing the name alongside the title Warrior General. In the end, Lycasis pared it down to two men: Merrell Medina and Maranta Shanaugh. But Merrell was a medical man at heart and frankly told Lycasis he preferred to tend to the wounded rather than send out the healthy into harm's way. Despite his youth, Maranta was a warrior of renown who grew up in the household of a Warrior General, steeped in the lore of the sword.

When Lycasis announced his choice, his advisors and council members were split in their approval of the decision. Lycasis reminded them of three important points: One, Maranta was Quentin's aide for the last fifty years and had a lifelong familiarity with the high demands of the office; Two, Quentin was not much older than Maranta when he became Warrior General during Lycasis's grandfather's reign; and Three, Lycasis was the king and did not require approval of a council. The advisors and council accepted his decision without further comment.

No one said it aloud but there was a re-energizing of the Royal Thuringi Air Command. Maranta's vitality and youthful energy was infectious. Lycasis's advisors and council discovered his new Warrior General appointment was the best choice he could have made, and soon they all sang Maranta's praises. For over a century the Shargassi maintained an uneasy distance, hurling insults in outposts or boasting a large game, but none directly challenged General Maranta Shanaugh and walked away a victor.

After Quentin’s death, once things returned to normal Maranta took the odd night to relax at the Standard cantina. On such occasions he was usually in the company of a woman. If the drawback as a Warrior General was constant service to Thuringa, then the perks included being very admired. One evening as he sat in a booth across from that evening's companion, Maranta spied a slender figure as she threaded her way through the crowd down the aisle beside to his booth. She wore a brand-new uniform, black with the white piping signifying a medical officer. Her long silky hair threatened to get into one of the drinks she carried in each hand. He recognized her with a start and impulsively Maranta thrust his leg straight out across the aisle to make her stop abruptly.

"Where do you think you are going, little girl?" he asked in his low rumbling voice. He drawled out each word playfully. The young woman smiled at him and Maranta wondered if his heart indeed skipped a beat when she did. Carrol Phillipi de Saulin was no longer the child who used to play leap-across on her brothers' shoulders or curl up into a tight little ball so her brothers could use her as an impromptu Kellis ball on the manicured main lawn of Grace Castle. She was an adult now and Maranta's instinct to stop her from going past served him well.

"I am bringing some drinks to my brothers," Carrol told him, unaware her eyes were batting flirtatiously. It was not her intention to do so. Maranta was too awesome a figure in her life with which to flirt; she batted her eyes because she was excited and uncertain about his notice. Carrol the princess was never allowed to flirt with anyone as it was deemed unseemly. No practice at the art, however, only added a lighthearted charm to her lilting voice.

"Let them get their own drinks, lazy scoundrels that they are," Maranta declared. "There is a thirsty man here in need of quick libation." She nodded in recognition to the half-full glass of wine before him on the table. He downed it in one gulp. "Not enough; I still thirst." He lowered his leg and slid over on the bench seat to make room for her. Carrol hesitated for only a moment before she sat down and offered him one of the drinks. She sipped from the other.

Maranta's companion’s outrage increased as time passed. Of course, Maranta knew Princess Carrol; he tutored the royal princes and princess in all manner of studies. He spanked royal bottoms and scolded young transgressors as any Warrior General would with his regal charges. But it had been Maranta's suggestion to his companion to come to the Standard that evening; Maranta's choice of booths and Maranta's intimation only minutes before that the cantina was getting too noisy and perhaps his house would provide more privacy. Now his companion all but disappeared in his mind in lieu of the younger, prettier and more appealing prey before him.

Well, he cannot have this one, the woman thought triumphantly; Carrol is the Princess Royal and he is the Warrior General. Hah! But Maranta and Carrol continued their light banter; so innocuous on the surface, so charged with interest underneath.

"Where is our brandy!" they heard Darien roar from down the aisle.

Maranta turned and shouted back at him. "In the bottle; or did you need a glass?"

As he figured, no less than three drinks of different varieties were poured over the prince's head. A friendly quasch broke out as the Phillipi brothers and their friend Brent Ardenne wrestled with those who poured. Maranta chuckled and Carrol laughed aloud. He turned back around in his seat and saw his evening's companion glare at him from across the table. He shrugged in apology. Then Carrol made a comment about Darien's soaked tunic and Maranta's attention instantly snapped back to her. The next thing he knew, he was doused with a facefull of wine and his companion leaped to her feet.

"Dakarte Istay!" she hissed at him and stormed away. Carrol sat in open-mouthed shock and wondered what he would do. Maranta watched as the woman walk away and knew several people were watching and listening now.

"Well," he said as he ran his tongue around his lips in a circular motion, "At least it did not all go to waste." He got a good laugh from the others for his comment. Carrol held up her glass. "What are you doing, little girl?" he asked in his delightful rumbling voice.

"I thought I would toast her aim," Carrol replied saucily. Maranta laughed, lifted his brandy glass, and clicked it against hers. They finished their brandies and left the cantina before Darien and Stuart's freewheeling quasch with the patrons of the Standard cantina reached their area. He walked her all the way back to Grace Castle, even though they both had transportation at the Standard. At some point during the stroll, he took her hand and she held it tightly. By a side gate, Maranta in his inebriated state did an otherwise prohibited deed: he kissed his royal princess. Carrol did another improper action: she encouraged it wholeheartedly.

"Little girl, your charm alone is intoxicating," Maranta said to her as he pulled her closer for another kiss. "Do not suppose I will forget about this tomorrow in the sober light of dawn."

"I am not concerned about the dawn," Carrol told him. "If you forget, I will be the one to remind you. After all, I am not drunk." She kissed him again and slipped through the bars of the ornate fence outlined the grounds of the castle.

"Little girl, I will never be able to be absolutely sober near you again," Maranta sighed into the night air, “You intoxicate me with your mere presence.”

He made his way back home. When they saw each other the next day, just one smile from one to the other was all it took. They knew the rules and the traditions of their people. They also knew no rule or tradition could order their hearts not to beat in one accord with each other.

Maranta clung to life for three days in the medical complex. He alternated between intense agony and dull, uncaring numbness from Darien’s increasingly but necessarily stronger painkillers. Sometimes his fever sent him into delirium, and he shouted out battle commands and relived actions of his memory. Sometimes he reminisced about his and Carrol’s courtship in language so blunt and lusty anyone in the room other than Carrol hurried out in embarrassment at such an extremely personal subject. Carrol was beside him for every moment except the most necessary, and she resented the loss of any time she had left with her husband.

On the evening of the third day Queen Oriel came to the room with her loyal Naradi guard Thurman Garin. She rarely left the royal grounds of Grace Castle, and her presence astounded those present. She rose from her assistance chair. In a firm determined voice she ordered everyone out of the room, even Thurman. From the other side of the windows, they watched as she carefully bent over Maranta, touched her hands to his temples and whispered. Maranta slowly relaxed until he lay still and calm on the air column bed. The two exchanged private smiles. She made it back to the chair before she collapsed on it. Sandan and Thurman rushed in, and she returned to Grace Castle with her Naradi guard.

Maranta motioned for Carrol to lie beside him on the sickbay air column. She held him tenderly as he took deep breaths and slowly let each out. His chest stilled.

Sandan entered with Darien, checked Maranta and whispered, “He is gone.” Darien re-calibrated the painkiller and administered some to the distraught Carrol.

Three days before the Armada set out Maranta Shanaugh was buried beneath a giant Dorea tree in the nearby forest from Arne. His grave was sheltered by the dying arms of the tree bearing the carved initials “CP-MS”.

Darien assigned Hartin Medina to lead the convoy guard when the Armada left the atmosphere for space. The experienced colonel would show the younger troops how to effectively do the task with minimum loss. "So many experienced warriors have been killed; I fear soon we will have no one but the honorably retired and untested cadets to defend our people," Hartin remarked.

"We are not quite that dire yet," Darien replied. "And at least we are picking the Shargassi off two for every one of ours."

Hartin stared out across the bustling hanger area and saw Gareth Duncan hard at work on a fighter engine. "I have promised certain people I will "pick off" fifty for Maranta's loss alone. It is true that yes, we still have the best of the best in the Air Command but without him it has been more of a challenge than ever."

The three ships of the General Population Quarters filled with Thuringi refugees. Lycasis’ surviving subjects were accounted for; surviving flora and fauna crowded into the zoological and botanical ships. All ancient Thuringi texts from libraries were saved on computer disks in the flagship Quantid before being stored on one of the cargo vessels. Engineering and technological items were catalogued and stored on the Steag Hallid, and at the last minute, items were crammed in even as the doors shut.

Art pieces and historical artifacts from museums were placed throughout cabins in the general population quarters in an effort to save the irreplaceable pieces without taking up room in the cargo ships. If the inhabitants tired of seeing the same piece day after day, they could exchange it with someone else’s art piece, and then later with still another until the entire collection was brought together again for new museums when the fleet settled the new world of Farcourt.

The Phillipis stood together on the shore at Arne, Stuart in the center and Darien and Lycasis at his sides, their near hands placed firmly on his shoulders. Darien barked a command into his communicator. The Freen’s engines fired up and the massive ship slowly rose into the air. Stuart lifted his arms with great concentration, boosting the water-filled ship upward into space with his unique Arda-powered ability. The Phillipis on shore broke out into a sweat as the effort to bolster Stuart’s strength with their own increased. The relief on their faces once the Freen broke free of gravity was profound. It was the most difficult ship to help rise, although the GPQ’s also needed a measure of aid from the Arda-powered trio on shore. Unfortunately, some shuttles were cut off from their fighter escorts and hit by the Shargassi Black Guard squad. The Thuringi in the Armada ships could only look on helplessly as those shuttles tumbled to the planet in re-entry flames. The escorts fought off the Black Guards, but the deed was done. As more ships joined to form the armada in space, the more hope was felt among the people, but it was nothing to take for granted.

Once all ships made it into orbit, the Thuringi people took a final look at their blackened, dying world. Carrol Shanaugh de Phillipi clung to the view screen on an observation deck and cried for her late husband, sobbing uncontrollably.

Aura stood nearby, alarmed at such powerful grief from her usually vivacious sister-in-law. Beside her, Erich nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He glanced at his grandmother Oriel as she entered the deck with her Naradi, Thurman. Oriel sighed and nodded to Thurman, and the Naradi stepped beside Carrol to dispense Darien’s powerful anti-depressant.

You have a choice, Maranta. When you die, you will travel the Path on to the Great Hall where the God of All awaits you. Our ancestors traveled this way from the first moment of time. You will be at peace for eternity.

However, you have another choice, one that will give your spirit wings to fly free. The Great Hall will always be there, but you may journey down a different path. You may travel along with us, the living, in spirit. I cannot guarantee you happiness or certainty. All I can offer to you is a chance to live again to conquer your foes. If your soul should find a resting-place, may it find it in a companionable vessel.

If that is not what you desire, then breathe deeply these last moments of the world and let your body feel the warm embrace of its final love. Let your soul drift up out from the now and choose the way of the Path you so richly deserve. Travel on to the Great Hall and join our waiting kindred of the past, or release your spirit into a new adventure. You will be free, beyond pain and breath.

With a strange detachment Maranta saw his body lying calm and peaceful beside Carrol, his bride of four days. The sight of her moved him. He recalled how his heart once raced at the thrill of proximity to her and how he cherished their time together. It was wonderful but now was at an end. It pained him to see her grieve, so raw and excruciating in its power. She had her brothers and others of their people to give her comfort. Maranta was no longer there to console her; his physical form was dead, unmoving. She was warm and soft and living and required a physical response. Maranta no longer had a body but his spirit, as Queen Oriel said, was free.

He drifted up through the ceiling and roof of the building until he soared through the skies, the upper atmosphere, and into the star-dusted darkness of space. There was a flowing path, much like a wormhole of space, except it was golden bright and inviting. He considered it for a moment before a streaking fighter jet caught his attention at the periphery of his vision. To leave his people now when he might perhaps still be of service to them was unthinkable if there was a way for the lifelong Air Command warrior to help. The squadrons he so carefully trained in the before time, rushed to the defense of their populace. He watched the battles with interest, concerned for the valiant surviving Air Command warriors.

Maranta raced alongside the lead Thuringi fighter planes to test his new form against the Shargassi fleet. He was able to move easily, flying as artfully as the crafts around him. It gradually dawned on him that his form was less than smoke and powerless to physically affect the outcome of the physical universe. He was a mere observer, and the realization of the futility halted further attempts to aid his people. He looked for the Path but not a trace or hint of the shining opening remained.

The Path of All was gone! All three hundred twenty-five years of dutiful attendance at Thuringi religious services told him of the necessity to travel the Path of All when he took his final breath. It had been right there before his eyes, but as in every aspect of his life, he placed his king and people before himself. Well, the queen assured him it would be there in the future for him. Perhaps there was still something he could do for Thuringa.

After a time, he drifted down to the Dorea forest outside Fellensk. An honor guard placed a casket in a hastily dug grave beneath a large tree. Maranta recognized that tree. He drew nearer and recalled the way he painstakingly carved the initials on it for his beloved Carrol during a secret tryst it took months to plan. He studied the gathered ensemble around the grave. All the Royal Family including Oriel stood with a troop of some of the most illustrious warriors of Thuringa in attendance. It touched him for such an assemblage to be brought together for the burial of his mortal remains.

He was buried in his dress uniform, and it vaguely amused him he would join with the soil of Thuringa in the most uncomfortable uniform a warrior could wear. The formal black tunic with its silver piping and white breeches looked strange on his former housing from his spiritual vantage point. His mission badges and honors had been removed and given to Carrol, his next of kin. His face appeared peaceful, quite the opposite of the hours of pain and struggle he endured. The ceremony was short and to the point; the danger of a return of the Shargassi fighters did not permit the Royal Family and their best fighters to remain in one spot on the dying planet for long.

Carrol was heavily sedated and supported at both elbows by her brothers. Maranta reached out to comfort her but could not contact her flesh. He passed through her body without a flicker of reaction from her. She let out a small whimper as the assembled raised all swords at the end of the graveside service and shouted, “Shanaugh!”

Stuart and Darien helped Carrol into Lycasis’s ship, and the royal couple took her back to Grace Castle in Arne. The brothers and the troops dispersed to their own assigned locations. Before he joined the others heading back, Maranta’s mechanic Gareth Duncan placed a small handful of limp flowers on the mound of dirt. He wiped his eyes and nose briskly with a clean cloth before he turned to a ship.

Maranta remained for a time beside the Dorea tree. How long, he did not know for the demise of the planet was relentless. He watched the tree drop its leaves as its proud limbs lost their resiliency. The stiff unforgiving winds blew the desert sands closer and whipped the dying trees of the forest until all the branches snapped and crashed to the ground heavily. The force shook the earth supporting the roots. He stayed until he noticed a Shargassi fleet overhead.

They would never know the Thuringi they reviled the most, lay in the ground beneath the tree below their ships. The price once placed on his head would forever go unclaimed, for his grave was unremarkable. Its only point of reference was the now dead Dorea tree in the old forest, in the company of so many similar trees. The hand-sized initials were no longer perceptible on its parched trunk.

The Shargassi would not waste time to search for the despised remains of their long-time foe Maranta Shanaugh, even if they knew the location of his unconventional gravesite. Historically, the Shargassi took out their swords to plunge them into their victims in order to achieve a mark of contempt upon the body with their blades. This time they were more concerned with the failure of their ultimate goal rather than the search for a singular enemy. The sands spread over the old forest now and swirled its relentless way around the surface of the planet.

Maranta rose and observed the Shargassi’s frustration as they searched in vain for a surviving drop of Arda liquid. The once sparkling emerald and blue sea of Thuringa was thick and brown, and the carcasses of the creatures it once held floated in its fetid soup. The Shargassi combed the planet, unable to derive much pleasure from destroying the homes and cities of the once mighty world. The unyielding sands swiftly blanketed and spared the fair streets from further indignity, as if the planet itself was staging a final battle.

Maranta caught up with the Armada deep in space on a course for the nearest friendly world, D’tai. It would be a few years before they arrived and with any luck, they would reach this destination before they endured another attack. The Shargassi were so determined to find the fabled Thuringa Arda liquid they ignored the fleeing enemy at first. Maranta hoped they planned to pick off the stragglers at their leisure later, by which time the warriors of Thuringa would learn to function without their Warrior General and be better prepared to fight.