A Dark, Distorted Mirror. Volume 4. A Future, Born in Pain

watched her always, that ghosts protected holy places.... and that weapons could be guided by the spirits of their former owners.

But Kozorr had wielded that pike less than two years. She had never heard, even in the darkest legends, of any pike becoming a spirit blade in such a short time.

She launched forward in another attack. Kats parried it. Tirivail spun on the balls of her feet and darted past Kats' guard, dancing effortlessly in a pattern of attack her clan's Sechs had developed. Kats moved slowly to match her.

Tirivail rained blows down on Kats, and each one was blocked, although with difficulty. There were.... weaknesses in Kats' defence. Tirivail could not explain this, any more than she could explain how Kats could wield the weapon at all. The guidance of Kozorr's spirit was the only possibility.

But that meant....

It meant that Kozorr did truly love this worker after all. It meant that the bravest, strongest, most noble warrior Tirivail had ever known loved a worker rather than her.

Screaming with fury, she continued to attack. Time and space continued to shift, and she was on Minbar once again, on her family's training ground, practising with the denn'bok while her father watched.

Lanniel was defending, crafting an effortless wall of movement and parry, draining every attack. Every advance broke on her wall, and finally Tirivail slumped to the ground, defeated.

No! Not this time!

Her attack smashed Kozorr's pike from Kats' hands and the force of the impact drove the worker to the floor. Eyes blind with rage, not knowing where or when she was, Tirivail lunged in for the kill.

There was a distant cry from someone she ought to know, but did not, and a blur of motion. In one terrible instant she realised what was happening and tried to reverse her attack, but instinct was too finely ingrained. Generation after generation of warrior training in her blood worked against her.

Kozorr's crippled body could move at last. He formed another shield, one Tirivail could destroy all too easily. The edge of her pike tore into his body.

There was a rush of blood, an anguished cry, and then.... silence.

She dropped her pike and sank to her knees, head bowed. She knew Kats was saying something, but she did not hear it. The words were not meant for her, after all, but for the one they both loved, the one she had just killed.

'Is he dead?' she whispered at last. It was a killing blow, she knew that. He might still live, if his will held. It might not be fatal.... yet. But she knew with a sick certainty that it would kill him eventually.

'No,' came the soft reply.

'You were right. We should not be fighting each other.'

There was noise and movement from the other side of the room. 'Tirivail!' came a cry. It was Rastenn, the euphoria of victory in his voice. 'We have prisoners, two of them.'

'Let them go,' she said hollowly.

'What?'

'Let them go!'

'Sinoval is waiting for you,' said Kats softly. 'He is in the Grey Council Hall. He is alone.'

'I know where that is.' Tirivail rose to her feet and picked up her pike. 'We will end this, and when it is.... done.... I will come back. Kozorr, can you.... hear me?'

'I think he can.'

'You.... were right. Take your pretty little worker, be with her.' Her eyes shifted to meet Kats'. 'I....' She tried to say something, but no words would come.

'I know,' Kats whispered, tears in her eyes.

Tirivail could not hold that gaze for long. She broke away and turned to Rastenn. He had seen Kozorr's body, and his face paled. He had idolised Kozorr, dreamed of modelling himself in his pattern.

'We will find Sinoval,' she said to him, and he looked at her. 'We will end this.'

'Yes,' said Rastenn, a dark hatred in his voice. 'We will end this.'

* * *

There was a lesson Corwin remembered the Captain teaching him once. It was about fear, and something he claimed to have picked up from one of his earliest commanding officers.

Fear has no place during a battle. Before, yes. And after sometimes. But never during. There are two types of soldiers: the one who wants to win, and the one who is afraid to lose. Both can be good. Damned good. But in a match between the two, there's no doubt who'll win.

Don't be afraid during a battle. Think about what is. Think about what you have to return to, not about what you might lose.

The Captain had taught him a great many things, and most of them he had learned to heed. Not this one. He was afraid, but not of dying. He was afraid of living. Afraid of what was going to come out of all this.

It was not just him. There was a palpable sense of fear over the whole bridge. He could see some of the crew shaking. It wasn't just fear of battle. These were experienced soldiers, who'd been fighting almost constantly as far back as they could remember. There was something.... expectant in the air, a feeling that something very, very bad was going to happen.

Even the ship seemed to feel it. From time to time while he had been on the Agamemnon he had felt something that seemed like a heartbeat, thudding through the armrest of his chair. It could be just his imagination, but it seemed to be beating faster now.

'Are you there?' he thought to himself. 'Is anyone there, or am I really losing my mind?' He had felt so many strange things about this ship, and he was not the only one. Neeoma flat out refused to come on board any more, and several members of other crews had resigned, or moved to the normal support ships. There had even been a handful of suicides.

What had those Vorlons done here? What were they willing to do for all this?

In fact, the only person who seemed unaffected by these Dark Stars was the Captain himself, but then he had changed so much in recent months anyway.

Are you there? Corwin thought to himself again as the gap in space opened and the Agamemnon swept into normal space with the rest of the fleet.

Help me!

He started, sitting forward. Had someone said something? He looked around, but none of the bridge crew was looking at him. He was sure he had heard something, but it wasn't a voice he recognised.

He shook his head, trembling. There were a million explanations. Radio interference, perhaps. Strange things happened in hyperspace. Or maybe simple stress.

Whatever it was, rational thought fled as he found himself staring at the fleet ready to oppose him. Human ships, crewed by his contemporaries, people he knew, people he had met, liked, befriended.

And next to them, the Shadow ships.

Destroy them! cried a voice, one he could not identify, and just beneath that, a soft echo came. Help me.

There were no words that needed to be spoken, no orders that needed to be given. It was as if the ships knew what they were doing and the crews were merely along for the ride.

The Dark Stars swept forward, and battle was joined.

* * *

He watched and listened as she talked, happy to let her do so. He knew something of the trauma she had recently been through. The doctors here might not be well provisioned or well paid or well supplied, but they were thorough and they knew their job. For most of them it was a calling.

She showed little sign of her grief. Although her words lacked the conviction of their previous conversation, her genuine sincerity remained.

Dexter Smith was still unable to explain, even to himself, why he was risking so much to help Delenn. A little voice in his mind, Talia's voice, said he owed Delenn nothing. She was the enemy. They had undertaken a mission to rescue her, and they had been paid for it, and that was that. Mission accomplished, job done, go home.

But another part of him pointed out that Delenn was not the enemy. She was someone who had been