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otherwise gloomy space. The air smelled of death and decay, and personally Ren thought it both ironic and fitting the old man should go out thus, too weak even to stand on his own two feet.
    Several elderly council members stood around his bedside, as did the Legion Master, Rorn. At Ren’s appearance, the small crowd stared in awed surprise. Rorn managed a subdued smile of joy. Of all his masters and trainers, one-eyed Rorn had commanded—nay, earned—Ren’s heartfelt respect. The man was a fierce warrior who never seemed to tire in battle, and who treasured one’s spirit more than one’s bloodline.
    At the crowd’s silence, the old king shifted with a weary groan. He lay propped up in the bed against several feathered pillows, and his head appeared a great weight on top of his frail, papery neck.
    His eyes widened as they took in the sight of Ren, who stood with his arms crossed and his gaze openly hostile. What more did the bastard king want with him? Perhaps he had more “training” in mind? To torment Ren by clinging to life? Ren swallowed a sigh. He really should have found some release on the pleasure planet, because there was clearly no joy to be found here.

    Zedrax felt his heart fill with pride as he looked at his sons: the youngest so full of passion and intelligence like his mother, and Garen… His oldest looked every bit as harsh and strong as he’d have hoped. Though it had been years since he’d spoken directly with the lad, now a man, Zedrax had kept his eyes on Garen’s progress.
    Now that Garen stood so close, Zedrax could see why the entire Legion quaked before his son. My son. Bitterness and anger consumed him. Why had it taken him so long to see the dominant Bylaran blood running through the boy? For so long he’d only focused on Garen’s hated Fenturi side, blinded by prejudice and fear. Yet as he looked at his children, he couldn’t help noticing their likeness to each other…and to himself.  
    “Well, old man, I have not the time nor patience for such a waste of time,” Garen growled. “If you’ve called us to watch you die, get on with it.” The boy stared at him with dislike bordering on hate.
    The others gasped. Zedrax laughed. Garen had spirit in spades and never failed to amaze him with his aggressive nature. A fierce warrior like that made a man proud.
    “Quite so—” Zedrax wheezed and coughed into a blood-soaked handkerchief. “Garen, I have called you here, along with our beloved prince and my most trusted advisors, to discuss plans for the return of the Ragil Horde.”
    The others murmured their disbelief, but Zedrax kept his gaze on his sons. Zebram’s eyes widened, but he said nothing, no doubt having heard the rumors circulating about the return of their most dreaded enemy.
    “What of it?” Garen asked.
    “You have heard?”
    “All the System has heard speculation of a Ragil ship floating in the Outworlds, but none give it any credence.”
    “They should.” Zedrax felt the finger of death pulling him closer and hurried with what needed to be said. “When I heard rumor a year ago, I gathered with other members of the Council, and we decided to send out a secret mission to prove or disprove evidence that the Ragil Horde somehow survived the last battle so long ago. Only recently have two men in a crew of a hundred survived and returned to us. The Ragil come again.”
     Zebram scowled. “Why wasn’t I told before?”
      “I’m telling you now, my son. Soon you will be king, and you will need to act on this. And you, Garen.” Zedrax turned to his eldest. “You must support Zebram and the kingdom in its time of need, or Vinopol may be lost.”
    “But the Ragil wars occurred over a millennia past,” Rorn said. “How do you propose we fight them now when our air superiority is still so much in question? Even our Nexian best is barely a match against their starships of long ago. Now, if we had to fight them in hand-to-hand combat, I grant you our