But blood that fresh?
His hearts beating so fast he could scarcely breathe, Marrago opened the door.
Senna's body fell out, a bloodstained knife hanging loosely in her fingers. Her eyes were open, but there was no sight there. Blood was everywhere, on her hands, her dress, her face, her hair, her mouth.
So much blood.
Almost an ocean of it.
Marrago stared in mute horror, unable to form even a conscious thought.
'Where are you, Sinoval?' he cried again after a long while. Tears were welling in his eyes.
Behind him, the Shadow Warrior waited.
Kulomani was half-expecting the message he received, but that did not make it any less disturbing. He had been expecting it ever since the Day of the Dead, ever since his conversation with the former Lord-General Jorah Marrago.
Kulomani was not stupid. He knew in whose service he had been recruited and he accepted that, knowing the stakes he fought for. To his mind there had been something wrong throughout the war with the Shadows, something he had only been able to conceptualise during the final battle at Z'ha'dum itself. There had been something wrong and now he had the feeling that he was on the side of right again.
He sat at his command post on the bridge of Babylon 5. What did the humans call it? C and C? At his fingertips rested the entire power of the whole station, and by extension all of the Alliance. Power was a truly terrifying thing sometimes.
He tried again to contact General Sheridan. Again there was no reply. The General was here, in his quarters. He had taken some time off to rest, claiming he had not been sleeping well. Kulomani did not really grasp the problem there, but he supposed none of his people could. Still, he could not deny that the General had not been looking well. There were dark smudges under his eyes and he spent a lot of time rubbing at his face and drinking that strange black drink he called coffee.
Still no reply. He ordered a Security squad to General Sheridan's quarters. It could be nothing, but he had a feeling there was something happening. The Alliance fleet at Frallus 12 was mobilising, as was the
Not Alliance against Shadows. Alliance torn apart against itself. The raiders were a symptom, the first bubble of poison rising from the bottom of the swamp. There would be more. But the war would begin there, on Centauri Prime.
The Security team reported back.
Kulomani breathed out and gave instructions for the Alliance fleets to move to Centauri Prime, top priority, and for a medical team to go to General Sheridan's quarters.
He gave them in that order.
'Sinoval! Where are you?'
Susan Ivanova called until her throat was hoarse. She ran through the neverending, always-winding pathways of Cathedral until her feet ached and her legs burned with pain.
It was happening. The Brotherhood had launched their attack. The Centauri ships were being outmatched and overcome. Brotherhood shuttles were already heading for the planet's surface. Centauri Prime was teetering on the brink of one disaster too many.
And where the hell was Sinoval?
'Damn you, Sinoval!' Ivanova called out to the empty darkness. She could not even see any of the Soul Hunters, not even the Praetors Tutelary who were always near Sinoval. It was as if Cathedral had died in a split second and she just had not been told yet.
'Sinoval, if you make me do this by myself, I swear by almighty God I'll….'
She ran into the training ground without even realising it. He was there, sitting cross-legged as if in meditation, Stormbringer on the floor in front of him. He was staring into nothingness.
'Damn you!' she cried out. 'Didn't you hear me? It's starting!'
There was no reply.
She ran up to him and shook him roughly. He did not move. 'Sinoval, don't you….' She shook him again. His skin was cold, unbelievably cold. 'Sinoval!' She pushed him.
He fell backwards. His eyes continued to stare up into the darkness.
Chapter 4
In a hall of endless mirrors, a place of shadows and light, one voice ringing out from all corners, John Sheridan moved, searching eternally for a way out.
Blood and darkness and wine.
The feast was continuing in the shadow of his mind. Never-ending joy and merriment and wine and women and, yes, even song.
No pain. No grief. No loss.
But as he drank it, he saw for the first time that the wine was not wine, but blood, and the food was not the flesh of animals, but the flesh of his people, and the song was not of rapturous celebration but a dirge for the dead and the dying.
'No,' replied Emperor Londo Mollari II. 'I am happy here.'
If only his people were so happy….
The Tuchanq attacked with a savage, careless, heedless frenzy. They suicide-rammed the few defence grid satellites still working. They hurled their ships into buildings and lakes. The earth rose and fell.
They brought their song to the land.
They sang as they died.
And where were the others? Where were the defenders of Centauri Prime?
Morden closed his eyes in a gesture that might have been prayer or might simply have been a refusal to accept what was happening. There was no fear. Why would he be afraid?
He was safe in a fortified bunker half a mile under the ground.
He had been woken up in the middle of the night by an Inquisitor at his bedside. He had been afraid then, for a single moment. The Drazi Inquisitor's ice-cold eyes stared at him, as if looking directly into his soul. Morden knew
