Chapter 6: Loved I Not Honor More?

Sech Turval was one of the leaders of the Anla'Shok. A master in the Ranger arts, his specialty laid in the Arts of Meditation and Contemplation. Both were vital to the Anla'Shok. One needed to know how to calm the mind and reach deep into their thoughts and draw useful conclusions. And not just biased beliefs.

But, this man of the Religious Caste, this leader of the Eight Fane of Tredomo was finding it especially hard to figure out why he needed to be babysitting the two Anla'Shok that trailed behind him. Tannier and Rastenn were among the more recent recruits to the Anla'Shok, somehow surviving the Vorlon-impulsed Minbari Campaigns against the Shadows. But, how did they manage to survive? Tannier was a skittish thing, jumping at every little sound. And Rastenn was looking for a fight everywhere he went.

Hopefully he wouldn't feel the need to as they stepped up to the Sanctum of Neroon. Neroon had chosen not to take the Secret Chambers of the Entil'Zha as his own, but had instead decided to reside on his old ship. The Ze'blat'hat was an elegant ship, like all Minbari ships. Elegant and deadly in purpose, but aesthetically pleasing to behold. The crew was smaller then most, only fifty instead of the regular compliment of a hundred on a Sharlin-class warship.

"Now, young ones," Turval instructed, as they walked down the purple and white hallway, "Do not speak unless spoken to. I realize it might be hard for you, but trust me this once."

"Of course," Tannier replied.

"Doubt you us?" Rastenn asked with a snort.

"I do not doubt you two young men," Turval replied, "I doubt your ability to listen to common sense."

They completed the trip to the Sanctum. Two Anla'Shok Rangers stood outside the door to the Sanctum, of the most secret Order of Belkok, the most elite of the Rangers. They wore completely black robes and their faces had red shrouds pulled over. They did not bow to them, in fact, they remained as still as living rock. Statues carved by a master hand.

But, the door opened as if the occupant inside had seen them and they saw Neroon standing at the door. How befitting the Entil'zha robes were upon his proud warriors body. Neroon's eyes jumped from person to person, a hint of disdain towards the younger Minbari. But, he inclined his head slightly towards Sech Turval in respect.

"I was on my way to see if you had arrived," he replied, "Come in."

"Oh?" Turval said with humorous smile, "I am touched by your concern."

"This is a large ship," Neroon replied, the small troupe following him into his spartan quarters.

For a man of much bluster, Neroon had little to show of his triumphs or accomplishments. Two denn'boks were on a small case laid in honor. And the banner of his clan was unfurled from the far wall. It was interesting to note that he hadn't displayed the Imperial Banner, which was a spiraling galaxy with a sword through it. Neroon went to the other side of a small desk of Minbari java wood and sat behind it on a chair of engraved wood, with a dark blood red cushion on the back.

He motioned Turval to the only other chair in the room, of similar fashion to the one he himself sat. The two young acolytes stood behind and the the side of their master. They were not invited to sit, despite their being there. In the eyes of anyone who knew, they were not even acceptable as Rangers until they had completed their training. Until that time, they were essentially shadows in the open.

"His Imperial Majesty," he stressed the last words sarcastically, "May have need of us soon."

"Oh?" Turval asked politely, "Does not our helping rebuild constitute as needs we are fulfilling?"

Neroon's lips twisted in a disgusted sneer. "Apparently we need to also be prepared to step up our, as the humans would say it, game," he explained.

"Oh?" Turval's polite ironic humor turned to slight confusion.

"Our Lord and Master feels that if he cannot bring the less then inclined to obey his whims," Neroon explained, "we will need to help bring a change in the heads of the governments."

Turval's eyes grew wide and then hardened slightly. He had been a proud member of the Anla'shok since he had been the tender age of twelve cycles. No one in the order had lived and been a Ranger longer then he had. He proudly wore the Anla'Shok robes.

"I am a Ranger," Turval said slowly, "I stand between the candle and the star. I stand on the bridge, so none may pass. I am a guardian of light. And I will not become a servant of subversion and forced obedience."

Neroon stroked his small beard. "I understand how you feel," he replied, "And I wish I could do something-"

"Respectfully sir," Turval shook his head, "You know nothing of the Anla'shok. You are a Warrior, pretending to be anything besides that. You see not the Rangers of Valen being anything more then a private army of your own. And if you decide to follow madness and darkness, I want no part of it."

Neroon stared at him. "We all must do our part," he reminded him.

"At what cost though?" Turval asked him, "When is enough enough?"

Neroon stared deeply into his eyes. So deeply that Turval felt as if he was falling. He tried to pull out, but was unable to. The last thing he knew was the dark and slimy blade of the Shadow as it cut across his throat, killing him instantly. As his dead body hit the floor, Neroon looked mournfully at it.

"I wish there was a choice," he whispered.

"There is a choice," the Shadow replied, "The Choice of the One that Will Be."