Whitestar 97
This series is a sequel to the Dark Horse series, which is a sequel to The Loribond series.
Chapter One: Windsword
Firuun stretched and slid off his sleeping platform. It was strangely quiet and empty in the dark room. He was no longer used to having a room of his own. It had not been very long since he became chief engineer and first officer of Whitestar 97, but he was already accustomed to the Whitestar's communal sleeping room.
He was used to hearing the crew breathing. He was used to the subtle purr of the hybrid Vorlon/Minbari engines through the seamless, living deck.
He went outside. It was a crystal dawn: cold, bluish, crisp; the kind of air that no starship ever had, no matter what kind of special scent mix the yard dogs pumped in.
But Clan Imbalo's stronghold did not refract rainbows. Like most of Minbar's cities, it was carved out of natural crystalline rock, but it had not been finished as a cut and polished jewel, for aesthetic effect, at least not from the outside. The inside of the fortress was sparely beautiful, and the corridors glowed from within, from lights set in the crystal walls. But the outside looked like nothing so much as a mine; a few openings in a hillside that was otherwise left natural. Sedges and grasses covered the hill, and it was pierced by triangular and diamond-shaped doors, windows, skylights, and arrow slits.
Firuun had lived here as a child, but he had forgotten about the arrow slits. This fortress was old. Very old.
Firuun saw he was not the first one up after all. A tall young male stood in the road, playing with a broom as if it were a Pike. Perhaps he was dreaming of the old days, as Firuun often had as a youth.
"Sharn."
The young warrior turned, and dropped the broom as if in embarrassment. Joy and fear flickered over his face.
"It's alright, Sharn. Come to me," Firuun invited.
The youth grinned and ran to Firuun. They each put a hand to the other's heart, the Minbari equivalent of a hug. Sharn was only a few centimeters shy of Firuun's height.
Sharn struggled to enunciate one of the few words he could say in his native tongue, the language of the warrior caste. "Father."
"I'm sorry, Sharn. I never meant—" Firuun shook his head. It was no use trying to tell Sharn he did not mean to reject the boy. The truth was that he had. That he could even think of trying to say otherwise only proved he had been hanging around with humans too much.
"There is too much to say," Firuun said. And, he silently added in the privacy of his mind, Sharn would not understand any of it.
So they went inside, and ate a bland breakfast of local grains, and waited for the others to wake up.
"Dilis!" Firuun boomed in surprise and delight. "You're here too!" He jumped up and gave his daughter a heart-touch. "Last I heard you were serving as ship's doctor on the Blood Claw."
"I came home for the ceremony."
"What ceremony?"
"The one that will no doubt be performed, now that you're finally here," she said tartly, but smiled as she spoke. "Calann contacted the whole clan when he found out you were taking home leave at last."
"Why?"
Dilis laughed. "You honestly don't know? Father, father, do you know how long the Windswords have been out of favor? And you brought us not only to prominence but popularity, and garnered a clan alliance with Delenn of Clan Mir, of all people, all with one brilliant stroke. Why, you're a celebrity! With all castes. And now you're the first officer of a Whitestar, too. Is there any doubt what Calann means to do?"
Firuun's eyes bugged out. "No," he whispered.
The elderly clan head of the Windswords gathered everyone together in the heart of the fortress, deep in the hillside. The hexagonal room had been carefully split out of the crystal of the mountain long ago, by members of the Windswords whose calling had been worker caste. Even today, there were some, and they were gathered here as well, a few people in bright civilian silks amid a sea of black warrior caste armor.
Over his armor, Calann wore a sword belt of simple brown leather, unadorned and serviceable as the brown leather scabbard, and the sword within it, of plain grey metal and a handle of the antler of a wild beast that had been extinct for 5,000 years. At the time the Wind Sword had been forged, such animals had been common on Minbar.
Another clan elder stood by, carrying a matched set of replicas of the Wind Sword.
Firuun knew what was coming. He wanted to say, don't go, Calann. But Calann was very old, and it was his right.
Calann drew the most precious relic of Clan Imbalo, the Wind Sword. It gleamed coldly in the light coming from many sources in the crystal walls like little stars.
"I am going to the sea." At Calann's words, some of his clansmen bowed their heads in grief. "I name Firuun my successor. Is there a challenger?"
The moment stretched out tensely. There was always a challenger. Even if no one else wanted the job, someone always had to challenge. It was tradition that each new clan head had to fight to claim the Wind Sword.
"Come, Firuun." Calann motioned Firuun forwards, and he walked out in front of his fellow Windswords. The clan elder handed him one of the copies of the Wind Sword.
Firuun had carried a denn'bok, a Minbari Fighting Pike, around on his belt his whole adult life. He was proficient with it, but he was more of master of tools than weapons. And he had not touched a sword since his early training in the traditions of Clan Imbalo, before he went on to study starship engineering and entered military service.
He swung the replica experimentally, getting used to its balance, which was excellent, and its length, which was a little short for someone Firuun's size.
"Is there a challenger?" Calann repeated.
Sharn stepped out from the assembled ranks. "I."
"Sharn, no," Firuun said.
"I. Warrior," Sharn insisted. "Not. Failure. Not. I understand. Challenge."
The clan elder asked, "Is there any challenger who could actually lead the clan?"
Calann said, "No. It is a proper challenge. We have always underestimated Sharn. But he understands far more than he can say. The accident on the Rending Horn could have happened to any inexperienced hand."
Dilis stepped forward. "But it happened to Sharn. And the four people in the airlock. You know I've always defended my brother, Calann. Not that he ever needed much defending from bullies, at his size. But the elder is right. He should not be allowed to do this."
"Dilis, dear child," said Calann with a gentle smile. "Yours is a healer's heart. Always you have sought to protect Sharn. But his is the heart of a warrior."
Dilis nodded and stepped back into the group.
Sharn advanced and took the second replica from the clan elder. His face hardened, and he figure-eighted the sword in a precise, hard swish, without looking at the weapon at all. His eyes were locked on Firuun's.
He advanced in all the strength of his youth, and whirled the blade beside him once more, eyes still on his father's. In contrast to Firuun's tentative swings, there was nothing experimental about Sharn's movements.
Firuun's eyes widened in sudden fear. He had been thinking only of how he could defeat the boy without really hurting him. Now he wondered if he could beat him at all.
Firuun brought his sword up to a ready position, old training reasserting itself.
"Warrior," Sharn whispered, as if to himself. "Ultimate Warrior. Show you all."
Sharn sprang like a cat, all muscle and focus. Firuun barely blocked the attack, and the next one. Blade rang on blade.
Sharn swept Firuun's leg and uppercut to his body. Firuun barely regained his balance well enough to block.
Then Firuun's well-honed reflexes as a barroom brawler took over, canceling out his reluctance to fight his son, and he delivered a powerful left hook to the jaw.
Sharn shook it off and attacked with the sword again. Firuun blocked and counterattacked. There was no finesse in the swordsmanship of either fighter; Firuun was rusty and Sharn had never been sharp. They were both exceptionally tall and strong for Minbari, accustomed to bulling their way through fights without resorting to cleverness or technique.
Firuun had much more real combat experience, but Sharn was young and at his physical peak. For a few minutes, while the fight lasted and the swords clashed again and again, it seemed that everyone had been wrong about Sharn. He really was the Ultimate Warrior, just as Jador had promised.
But then Sharn cut Firuun's arm, and Firuun cried out. Sharn immediately reversed into a cut to the throat, a blow that could kill if it were not stopped, and Firuun's last caution fled. He stopped holding back.
Sharn had assumed Firuun's sword-arm was out of the fight for at least a few seconds, but Firuun had fought through pain many times. Sharn's belly was open and Firuun struck.
Blood appeared on Sharn's lips, and he dropped his sword in shock.
Firuun said, "It is over." He lowered his sword.
"No!" Sharn yelled, his voice bubbling horribly on his blood. He grabbed Firuun's sword by the blade, heedless of the edge cutting into his hands. "Death. Walks!" Sharn pulled the sword to an upright angle and fell on it.
Firuun let go, and caught Sharn before he could hit the floor. But it was too late. The sword had gone through his heart.
"NO!" Firuun bellowed.
He pulled out the sword and cast it away, and it rebounded off the wall. He lowered Sharn to the ground.
Dilis ran forward. "Sharn! Sharn!" She examined the wound quickly, and then she wept. "He is dead."
"What have I done?" Firuun said, kneeling by Sharn's body.
"You have done nothing, father," Dilis said through her tears. "Nothing but fail to see the truth. I have feared this for years. He wanted a way out. A way out as a warrior. This was his choice. Calann was right. I had no right to try to prevent him from doing this. He was no child. And he was more than a failed breeding program."
"Of course he was," said Firuun. "Sharn, Sharn, I am sorry."
Calann came forward and placed a hand on Firuun's head, in blessing or comfort, perhaps. "It is I who am sorry, Firuun. Not for allowing this fight; Sharn was a warrior, and he went as his choosing. Even as I do, as I go to the sea. No, I apologize for Sharn's life, not for his death. It was I who gave sanctuary to Jador. It was I who endorsed her genetics program. It was I who ripped you away from the young Star Rider you had fallen in love with."
Firuun pushed Calann's hand away. "That was long ago. My love faded over the years. All your mistakes are dead now, Calann. Stepis left this life as a warrior as well, although she did not go at her will. I hated her, as you know, but even that has faded over time. It is a faded scar now. I no longer even hate Jador. For Dilis is a product of the breeding program as well."
Dilis wiped her tears and said, "I doubt that I'm what she was after either. Though I admit my first interest in science and medicine was because of her. The last thing she was working on before we threw her out was a true horror, father. Have you heard of it? The anti agapic?"
"I heard. The Vorlons killed her, you know. This is not the time for such discussions, my daughter. We must hold the rites for Sharn."
"Yes," said Calann. "But first you must take the Wind Sword." He unbuckled the sword belt and held its contents out to Firuun.
"I don't want it. I have paid too high a price."
"It is yours, nonetheless," said Calann. "You did not kill him, Firuun."
"I know." Firuun sighed as he got to his feet. He took the Wind Sword, buckled on the sword belt, and drew the Sword. "In the time before Valen, challenges always ended in blood. The Wind Sword drank the life of its clan." Firuun carefully reached up with one finger and smeared Sharn's blood on the ancient blade. "I have always looked back to the time of the clan wars. This is one tradition I never wanted to renew."
End of Chapter One